/^ 


Miami  Woods 


GOLDEN   WEDDI NG 


OTHER  POEMS 


BY 


WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER 


CINCINNATI 
ROBERT    CLARKE    &    CO 

1881 


(*oi->  Kii.iirr.p,   ISSl. 

iiv  w.  n.  nAi.i.AciiKri. 


^ebicctiian. 


TO 

A  MEMORY 

SACRED  FOREVER. 

THIS  VOLLTJIE 

IS    NOW   INSCRIBED. 

APRIL,  1S81. 


When  last  the  mnple  bud  was  swelling, 

AVhen  last  tlie  crocus  bloom'd  below, 
Thy  heart  to  mine  its  love  was  tellini,'. 

Thy  soul  with  mine  kept  ebb  and  flow: — 
Again  the  maple  bud  is  swelling, 

Again  the  crocus  blooms  below; 
In  heaven  thy  heart  its  love  is  telling, 

But  still  our  souls  keep  ebb  and  flow. 

When  last  the  April  bloom  was  flinging 

Sweet  odors  on  the  air  of  Spring, 
In  forest-aisles  thj'  voice  was  ringing, 

Where  thou  with  bird  and  brook  didst  siiu 
Again  the  April  bloom  is  flinging 

Sweet  odors  on  the  air  of  Spring; 
But  now  in  heaven  thy  voice  is  ringing, 

Where  thou  dost  with  the  angels  ping. 

April.  1854.  (iii) 

ivil91935 


'preface. 


Nearly  the  entire  contents  of  this  volume,  preceding 
the  Miscellaneous  Poems,  appear  in  print  now  for  the 
first  time,  though  written  at  various  periods  between 
twenty-five   and   forty-two   years   ago. 

The  Miscellaneous  Poems  herewith  given  to  the  public, 
are  the  j)roductions  chiefly  of  the  author's  earlier  years, 
but  make  their  first  appearance  now  in  a  collective 
form. 

In  a  subsequent  volume  will  be  embraced  "  The  An- 
cient People,"  "  Ballads  of  the  Border,"  "Civile  Bellum," 
"  Monodramatos,    the   Reciter,"    "Lute   and   Lyre,"   and 

Miscellaneous  Poems  of  later  years, 

(v) 


Ctoutcnts'. 


I    MIAMI  ^VOODS:  page. 

Proem, H 

Part  First, 15 

Part  Skcond, 25 

Part  Third, 42 

Part  Fourth, 56 

Part  Fifth, G7 

Part  Sixth, 77 

Part  Sevknth, 82 

L'Envot, 88 

TI.  A  GOLDEN  WEDDTXG: 

The  Rolling  Fork  in  Hardin,         ...  93 

.Mothers  of  the  West, 90 

Among  the  Green  IIills  of  Adair,        .         .  98 

Lynn's  Station  on  Beargrass,     ....  100 

Love-Life  on  the  Elkhorn,    ....  102 

,  Song  of  the  Pioneers, 104 

,              The  Banks  of  the  Tennessee,         .        ,         .  109 

III.  IN  EXALTIS: 

The  Portico,             115 

The  Temple, 121 

The  Gardens  of  Nature, 'i-^) 

The  Happy  Valleys, 130 

(viij 


PAGE. 


viii  Contents. 

IV.   LIFE   I'KTURES: 

The  MidiiTiKii  Ukai.m,                                              .  1  I'i 

"WoMAS, 147 

The  Maniac, I.VJ 

Mahem.k  (jOLPIXO I'.O 

Over  tiik  "  Hkidok  ok  ^ioiis,"       ....  l*>j 

SoNo  OF  THE  K.NiTTixa  Girl 1G9 

V.   -MI.^CKLLANEOUS: 

TiiK.  AVf.st 173 

,A  Hymn  <>k  tuk  Day  that  is  Dawmn);,         .  178 

. Truth  axu  Frkei>.>m 181 

.  con.«ervatism 183 

.The  Lahorek 186 

,  Kakicai.os 188 

The  .\rti9as.            i;t2 

The  New  Auk 108 

Am.  Thinhs   Krek, -joe 

He  Kirm— He  True •jo7 

.SpRi.Ncj  Verses, 'JIO 

To  ax  Early  Sriiisi;   Fi.nvKi;,  "Jl'j 

•  Daxdklioxs 'JI  I 

.May JIT 

Tiik  Caki'Inai.  |{ii:i>.                                         .         .  -.'Jl 

A  Summer  Sckm  -jjii 

TiiK  Mountain   rAiii-.,             -.Ml 

.A    Uarvk-i    Hymn.  1>;15 

»  A  DO  I'M.                                                                             .  '2'Mi 

IIaitink-s  -.\    I'll  II  Kt.  •_»;{» 

An  Autumn   A»tkknoos,  .241 


Contents. 


IX 


To  A  Late  Fall  Flower,          ....  244 

TriE  Wrkck  at  Sea, 246 

To  MY  Mother 249 

The  Bridal, 251 

Barley-Bree, 253 

The  IIevelers 256 

The  Invalid, 259 

A  "Wonderful  Story, 261 

Thirty-five, 264 


QiXliaml   '^JSooDs., 


Well  known  to  me  is  every  alley  green, 
Dingle,  and  bushy  dell,  in  this  wild  wood, 
And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side, 
;My  daily  walk,  and  ancient  neighborhood. 
Milton:  "  Comus: 

A  solitary  sorrow,  antheming 
A  lonely  grief. 

K  KATs :     •Ilyperloyiy 


I 


4 


]\[iAMi  Woods! — What  says  the  mighty  Past. 
To  tlie  still  mightier  Present,  from  the  midst 
Of  all  these  vestiges  of  centuries  gone, 
That  strew  the  plains  and  hills  around?     I  ask 
The  question  thousands  have  thus  asked  before, 
And  get  the  common  answer — echo !     Here, 
Green  on  the  crown'd  acclivities,  or  dark 
In  the  dim  twilight  of  o'erarching  trees 
That  clothe  the  valleys,  Ave  behold  remains 
Of  human  toil  and  triumjih  and  dismay. 
O'er  which  the  oak  that  counts  five  hundred  years 
Spreads  his  protecting  branches: — walls  of  earth; 
Tlascalan  gateways ;  sacrificial  mounds ; 
The  altars  of  a  worship  Ave  know  not; 
And,  beautiful  in  their  silence,  tombs  of  men 
Who  died  before  the  parent  tree  had  cast 
The  seed  from  Avhich  arose  this  hoary  trunk, 
That  lies  so  low  at  last!     But  though  the  eye 
Meets  these  rude  records,  turn  where'er  it  will, 

(11) 


12  Miami    WihmI.*. 

Till  V  tril  no  story  that  is  uiidirstiMMl, 

Of  all  the  hiiniau  luvo  and  liati-  aixl  priilr, 

Ami  all  the  j«  y,  and  strife  and  a^jony. 

That  once  were  known  within  these  Sylvan  homos, 

S)  j^)|)uloii.s  then,  so  void  and  silent  now: 

And  vainly  leans  the  listening  ear  to  catch 

A  sound  or  syllahle  nvealinj^  more 

Than  these  mute  records  to  the  eye  disclose. 

Pierce  far  into  the  depths  of  these  oM  wi>ods, 
AVhere  seem  to  miet  the  Pn'sent  and  the  Past; 
Hasten  nut  hence,  hut  with  still  linj^ering  ste|w 
Move  to  and  fro;  stan<l  on  the  tumulus 
That  rises  o'er  a  chiiltain's  ashes  ;  tnice 
The  cin-h'  and  the  st|uare,  wliicli  still  n-main 
Distinct  and  iK-autiful;   with  reverent  step 
Api)roach  the  altar  where  of  old  wire  lit 
The  fires  of  sacrifice;  snatch  from  its  sle«"p 
Of  centuries,  Ixiualh  tiic  prc-iiaiit  cartli. 
The  sculptured  imane;   and  then  «|ticstiun  jill. 
—Question  as  well  the  winils,  or  waves!  as  well 
The  child  that 's  with  nu-  here,  as  wise  as  1 1 
IIow  tiilent,  where  a  hiiudn  d  t.>nj:ues  should  siK-ak, 
If  curiosity  had  hut  the  |Miwer 
To  hitl  and  1h<  oUyed:   how  silent  all! 
There  cornea  down  from  the  Past  no  voice  to  t»  II 
The  talc  HO  »)nen  asked.     The  Troent  i»<iinls 


Proem.  13 

To  these  rude  works  alone,  and  tliey  are  mute. 

E'eu  the  high  chambers  of  the  tumuli, 

In  which  were  laid  the  bones  of  chiefs  and  kinsrs 

Who  ruled  here  in  the  ages  lost,  withhold 

The  revelation  sought.     The  marvelous  skill 

And  learning  that  iu  other  lands  have  read 

The  secrets  of  the  Past  on  images, 

On  stones,  and  on  the  corpses  of  the  dead 

Exhumed  from  the  repose  of  centuries, 

Read  nothing  here.     The  garrulous  tongue  of  Time 

— Time,  that  has  hung  the  forests  round  like  clouds 

Upon  the  hillsides :  Time,  that  here  has  cut 

Grooves  in  the  rocks  which  antedate  the  pits 

Hewn  in  the  hills  of  Latium  for  the  first 

Foundations  of  old  Rome, — throughout  these  wilds 

Makes  not  a  sign,  and  syllables  no  sound. 

To  break  the  eternal  seal  that  rests  on  all ! 

So  let  it  be !     Why  seek  to  knoAV  what  God, 
In  his  inscrutable  Avays,  has  hidden  thus? 
It  may  be  wise  such  mysteries  to  explore ; 
To  probe  the  Past  for  what  it  holds  so  dark ; 
But  in  familiar  things  that  lie  along 
Our  daily  walks,  are  lessons  for  us  all : 
And  he  who  seeks  the  profit  of  his  soul 
In  free  communings  with  the  things  that  speak 


14 


Miami  Wofuh. 


Most  rovorontly  of  Go<l  on  eartli,  may  ask 
Tlie  Pnscut  with  liuinility,  and  iiiul 
In  all  alnnit  him  revelations  i\ov\\ 
As  I  ilo  now,  here  iu  Miami  Woods. 


r   - 


:*-/.  \ 


^;-^ 


Fart  First— lS3d.  15 


aiart  iFirst. 

1839. 


The  autumn  time  is  with  us ! — Its  approach 
Was  heralded,  not  many  days  ago, 
By  hazy  skies  that  veiled  the  brazen  sun, 
And  sea-like  murmurs  from  the  rustling  corn, 
And  low-voiced  brooks  that  wandered  drowsily 
By  pendent  clusters  of  empurpling  grapes 
(Swinging  upon  the  vine.     And  now,  'tis  here! 
And  what  a  change  hath  pass'd  upon  the  face 
Of  nature,  where  the  waving  forest  spreads. 
Then  robed  in  deepest  green!     All  through  the  night 
The  subtle  fi'ost  has  plied  its  magic  art; 
And  in  the  day  the  golden  sun  hath  Avrought 
True  wonders ;  and  the  winds  of  morn  and  even 
Have  touch'd  with  magic  breath  the  changing  leaves. 
And  now,  as  wanders  the  dilating  eye 
Athwart  the  varied  landscape,  circling  far, 
"What  gorgeousness,  what  blazonry,  what  pomp 
Of  colors,  bursts  upon  the  ravished  sight! 
Here,  where  the  poplar  rears  its  yellow  crest, 
A  golden  glory  ;  yonder,  where  the  oak 
Stands  monarch  of  the  forest,  and  the  ash 


Ill  Miami    Wooih. 

I<  ;rirt  witli  flame-like  i)ara.-itf,  ami  liri)a<l 

The  (lofjwiMxl  spreads  Ix'ueath,  and,  IVimring  all, 

The  sumac  blushes  to  the  ground,  a  liood 

Of  deejH'st  crimson;  and  afar,  where  looms 

The  pnarlbd  gum,  a  cloud  of  bloodiest  red ; 

While,  iutermix'd,  maples  of  various  hue.", 

Scarlet  aud  gold,  and  delicate  streaks  of  pink 

And  purple  blotches  curiously  wrought, 

Inwoven  with  rich  orange  traceries 

And  dash'd  with  carmine,  take  the  wandering  eye 

Witli  ravi.-hmcnt.  ami  da/zK-  at  each  glance: — 

All  ipiiet,  in  the  calm  of  noon  that  now 

Scarce  floats  the  thL<tle's  down,  or  stii>  th''  1'  iif 

Of  tallest  as|H'i>  on  its  jHtising  stem, — 

Hut  toss'd  ag:unst  the  bluc-wall'd  heavens,  anon 

Antl  streaming  in  the  fitful  Itrcc7.es,  like 

IJanners  and  bannerets  tumultuous  iMirne 

In  ct)ntlicl  i/er  the  deadly  battle-field! 

Out  in  the  wo(k1s  of  Autumn  I      I  liavc  cast 
Asidi-  the  shackles  of  the  tt)wn,  that  vcx 
The  fetterless  soul,  and  come  to  liide  niyself, 
Miami  I    in  tiiy  vcntnd>lc  shades. 
Here  where  seclusion  looks  out  on  a  .scene 
( )f  matchless  In-auty,  I  will  pjui.«se  awhile, 
.\nd  on  this  bank  with  varied  mosses  crowiul 
<i«-nllv  recline,     'i'he  fyrest  has  a  voice 


Pati  First— 18S9.  17 

That  comes  to  me  with  memories  of  her 

Who  bore  me ;  and  the  beauty  of  the  scene 

Brings  recollections  up  of  some  who  here 

Roam'd  with  me  in  my  boyhood,  who  now  walk 

The  Avays  of  life  no  more :  a  thousand  thoughts 

Press  on  me,  mingled  w'ith  regretful  pangs 

For  slight  unkindnesses,  not  thought  of  then. 

That  now  reproach  me.     What  has  been,  thus  haunts 

What  is.     I  feel  the  present  and  the  past 

Around  me  and  within  me.     Earth  is  old, 

And  new ;  and  so  the  heart,  which  is  my  world. 

Far  in  the  quiet  woodland !     The  calm  sky 
Looks  smilingly  upon  me,  and  the  air 
Comes  laden  with  the  sweets  of  autumn  time, 
And  living  witli  the  murmurs  of  the  bee. 
And  insect  tribes.     Around  me  on  the  slopes 
The  aster  blooms,  and  in  the  valley  waves 
The  golden-rod.     Beneath  me,  silver-bright, 
Glide  the  calm  waters,  Avith  a  plaintive  moan 
For  summer's  parting  glories.     High  o'erliead. 
Seeking  the  sedgy  brinks  of  still  lagoons 
That  bask  in  southern  suns  the  winter  through, 
Sails  tireless  the  unerring  waterfowl, 
Screaming  among  tlie  cloud-racks.     Oft  from  where, 
In  bushy  covert  hid,  the  partridge  stands, 
2 


18  Milt  mi    M'iuhIa. 

Bursts  PinlfltMily  tlio  wliislK-  rl.ar  ainl  loud. 
Far-trlioin^r  tlirniiirh  the  dim  wood's  fri'ttt'd  aisles. 
I)r(|i  iimriiuirs  from  the  trees,  hendint;  with  brown 
And  riiK'ned  mast,  are  interrupted  oft 
By  sounds  of  droppimr  nut.>j;  and  warily 
The  turkey  from  the  thickit  comes,  and  swift 
As  flies  an  arrow  darts  the  pheasant  down, 
To  hatten  on  the  autumn  ;  and  the  air, 
At  times,  is  darkened  hy  a  sudile!»  ru.-h 
Of  myriad  win^s,  as  the  wild  pi;,'eon  leads 
His  S4piadrons  to  the  hancpiet.     Far  away, 
Wher*'  tmiKiuil  j^rovcs  on  sunny  slop<«s  supply 
Their  lihi-ral  store  of  fruits,  the  merry  laui^di 
Of  ehildren,  and  the  truant  soho<il-l)oy's  shout, 
Kin;;  on  the  air,  as,  from  the  hollows  borne. 
Nuts  load  their  ereakin;;  earts,  and  lush  pawpaws 
Their  motley  baskets  fdl,  with  ehisterini:  i^raprs 
And  irolden-.xphertti  par.-iminons  spread  o'er  all. 

Deep  ill  liie  solrmn  f'on-st  I      I'roni  tlw  t.>ps 
Of  these  old  trci's.  .'«wepl    by  the  tvi-nini;  wind, 
Whieh  swells  anion;;  tlu-ir  leaves,  an<l  dies  awav, 
And  pilhcrs  stren;;tli  apiin.  float  softly  down 
Slninp",  wild,  th-ep  liarnionii's.      And  1  ha\f  been 
All  ilay  anioiii;  the  Voi«'es  of  the  Woud. 
riial  air  but  lehiMv-  of  |Hr|N'tual  tones 
\\  nil  whi.h  (JimI  fill.o  the  universe.     Tlie  noon. 


Part  Fird—lSSd.  19 

Gairish  and  still,  and  luidiiight's  calm  repose, 

And  dewy  eve,  and  fresh,  rejoicing  morn. 

Are  full  of  them.     I  hear  them  in  the  breeze 

That  stirs  the  reed  to  music :  in  tlie  foint, 

Sad  murmur  of  the  stream  that  glides  below, 

Bearing  away  the  folleu  leaves,  as  pass 

The  dreams  of  childhood  and  the  hopes  of  life, 

I  hear  them :  and  I  hear  them  in  the  spring 

That,  bubbling  from  beneath  you  moss-clad  root, 

Falls  tinkling  o'er  the  shimmering  rock  below  : 

xVnd  in  the  billowy  chimes  that  wake  aloft 

When  freshening  winds  sweep  through  the  ancient  trees, 

They  speak  with  organ-tones,  that  reach  the  depths 

Stirring  within  me,  and  an  echo  find 

In  the  roused  soul.     .    .     .     O  God !  Thou  art  iu  all 

I  now  behold !  the  essence  and  the  life, 

The  germ  and  the  vitality !  the  birth, 

The  being,  and  the  end !  else  Reason  gropes 

In  darkness  all  her  days,  and  knowledge  dies. 

What  but  the  high  intelligence,  the  hand 

Almighty,  and  the  sempiternal  life — 

What  but  the  omnipresence,  and  the  will. 

All  which  we  feel  thou  art,  and  all  that  fills 

Our  great  Idea  of  a  primal  cause, 

And  fix'd  design  beyond  the  i)owcr  of  chance 

To  change  or  check,  could  speak  this  glorious  world 

From  wildest  Chaos  and  prnfoundest  Night? 


20  Miami    W.xmU 

WUiil  |K»i.<^'  tfie  planets  in  the  void,  and  .«et 

TliL'  intinit«>  stars  in  ttnlcr,  and  (-itntine 

Kacli  in  its  srparat*'  path  (tn  liifrh?     What  fill 

Marth  witli  its  cuiintlfss  iurnis  ot"  Lit'i-,  an<i  niise 

JOtrrnally,  as  aL'»'s  jrlide  alon;.^ 

New  Ix'in;:  Ironi  the  ashes  <«t"  d<(:i\  ? 

Alniif.  with  <li>.l  and  Nature,  and  tiiis  cliiid 
In  whom  I  witness  l><)th. — Around  me  now 
Is  pres.-inj;  onwanl  the  uneeasin;;  ehange. 
And  here,  amid  tlie  thiek-strewn  ves)i<;es 
<  )f  many  eriiturics,  whose  patlis  are  sii-n 
When-  time  has  worn  these  hollows  in  the  hills, 
And  after  lM-autiiie<l  the  ruin  wrought 
With  nil  this  growth  of  intt-rlaeinir  trees, 
I  oontcmplate  the  mysteries  suhlinjc 
Of  hirth,  anil  life,  and  death  I   .   .'Froni  the  dark  wonih 
Of  winter  «-omes  the  spring  with  mild,  warm  hreath; 
An<l  instantly  the  idiains  that  hound  the  streams 
An-  looM-neil,  and  iIk-  \\at»  r~  liap  to  light. 
And  shout  with  gladmss.     Smiu  the  s|h11  that  long 
lias  held  the  earth,  is  hroken;   and  the  grass 
Pierces  the  sod,  and  from  the  sheltt-ring  leaves 
That  strew  the  ground,  look  out  the  fresh  young  llowi-rs. 
Sndling  to  heav«n.     Then  the  gniy,  Imtless  trees.^ 
Long  de.'*olale  in  their  utl«r  nakedness, 
Fetd  the  new  preiwuee;  und  although  uo  »igu 


Part  Fh-d—lSSd.  21 

Of  life  is  visil)le,  a  delicate  green 

Creeps  out  along  the  tender  twigs,  where  swell 

The  germ-infolding  buds,  and  in  the  warm 

And  sunny  day,  and  through  the  breezy  night. 

Come  forth  the  myriad  leaves,  courting  the  light 

And  wantoning  with  the  zejihyr,  till  a  robe 

Of  brightest  green  bursts  on  the  wondering  eye. 

O'er  the  cold  bosom  of  the  sluggish  clod 

Soon  steals  the  influence ;  and  from  the  broad 

And  seeded  field  shoots  up  the  waving  grain, 

Till  spreads  a  sea  of  verdure  far  around, 

Toss'd  by  the  winds,  and  with  the  clouds  at  play. 

Then  comes  the  long  and  sunny  summer  time. 

And  for  the  garners  of  the  husbandman 

Kipeus,  and  to  the  sickle  lays,  the  grain  ; 

And  for  the  cherish'd  tribes  of  air,  that  make 

The  cool  groves  vocal,  strews  the  briary  slope 

With  berries;  and  for  the  inuumerous  flocks 

That  shun  the  haunts  of  men,  and  hang  their  nests 

High  in  the  endless  wood,  or  in  the  low 

Dark  thicket  build,  matures  the  beechen  mast; 

And  takes  the  worm  upon  the  leaf,  and  Avraps 

A  silken  tissue  round  it ;  and  prejDares 

For  many  an  insect  race  befitting  tombs, 

Where  each  shall  sleep  the  winter  hours  away. 

Then  comes  the  lone  and  quiet  autumn  on. 

With  tinkling  waterfalls,  and  moaning  woods, 


Mlfiiui    IIW/.v. 

Ami  arid  \va.«tc.s  -iVr  wliich  tlio  niirlit  winds  Ficrli. 

And  this  is  here;  and  now  the  fl<»wtr  hath  closc'd 

And  cast  its  jx-tals,  and  the  naked  stalk 

Stands  shriyelinir  in  tin-  frost;   the  feathcre«l  grass 

Is  heavy  in  the  head;   the  jwiinted  leaf 

Flies  twittering  on  the  wind;  and  to  the  earth 

Falls  the  hrown  nut,  with  inelaneluily  sonnd. 

Y(  t  tin-  low,  innaning  autumn  wind,  that  sweeps 

The  seeded  >^ii\.<ii  and  lately-Mossoniing  flowi-r, 

Bears  the  light  germs  of  future  life  away, 

And  sows  them  by  the  gliding  rivulet, 

Aticl  o'er  the  jdain,  and  on  the  mountain-side, 

To  elothe  anew  the  earth,  when  omes  ag:iin 

The  quiekening  breath  of  spring.     And  on  the  jilaee 

AVhere  fall  the  ri|Kiied  nuts,  the  frosty  night 

Will  luap  the  stricken  leaves;  and  tin  ncc  shall  sprinj; 

In  many  an  after  age,  another  growth 

Of  stately  trees,  when  those  around  me  mtw, 

Fallen  with  eld,  shall  moulder,  and  enrich 

Tlic  grouml  that  now  sustains  their  lofty  pridt\ 

(  liMii-iML',  I'lTt  \  IT  chaiigiug  ! — So  <lcpart 
The  glories  of  the  old,  n>aj(stic  w«hm1  ; 
S»  pa.<s  the  pride  and  garnitun>  of  fields. 
The  growth  of  ages,  and  the  MtMtm  of  davs. 
Into  the  dust  of  centuries;   and  so 
Are  Ixith  renewe*!.     The  scattered  triln-s  of  men. 


Part  First— 18Sd.  23 

The  generations  of  the  populous  earth, 

All  have  their  seasons  too.     And  jocund  Youth 

Is  the  green  springtime — Manhood's  lusty  strength 

Is  the  maturing  summer — hoary  Age 

Types  well  the  autumn  of  the  year — and  Death 

Is  the  real  winter,  ■which  forecloses  all. 

— And  shall  the  forests  have  another  spring, 

And  shall  the  fields  another  garland  wear. 

And  shall  the  worm  come  forth  I'enewed  in  life 

And  clothed  upon  with  beauty,  and  not  man? 

No ! — in  the  Book  before  me  now,  I  read 

Another  language ;  and  my  faith  is  sure. 

That  though  the  chains  of  death  may  hold  it  long. 

This  mortal  will  o'ermastcr  them,  and  break 

Away,  and  put  on  immortality. 

Almighty  Father!  such  the  lesson  is. 
That,  in  these  cool  and  venerable  woods. 
Amid  the  relics  of  a  mighty  Past, 
From  which  look  out  the  strong  and  swelling  germs 
Of  a  still  mightier  Future, — Father,  such 
Is  the  great  lesson  that  I  read  to-day, 
AVith  love  and  awe ;  and  firmer  in  my  breast. 
By  every  syllable,  these  truths  are  fixed : 
Tliat  Thou  art  the  beginning,  and  the  end, 
Of  all  this  Avondrous  Avork ;  and  that  Thy  love 
Pervades  the  universe ;  and  that  Thy  smile 


24 


Mxtmi    WiHul.*. 


Srekoth  all  liraits  !'•  sun  tliciii  :   :m<l  tliat  TIioii 
III  «v«ry  ;.'I<'riuiis  tliiiiir  \v»-  line  Ixlmlil, 
Diclan-st  ami  n-vral'st  'I'liystlf  to  Ik- 
'I'll!'  Majt-ty  Sii|.n'iiif — Ku-rnal  God. 


V 


v'/tf  'r'^\"^  ^•:<.■r^,/ 


•V-v      ~  t-,-'^- 


FaH  Second— 18U.  25 


33art  Sccontr. 

1844. 

After  long-wanderiug  in  the  crowded  streets 
Of  busy  cities,  where  Humanity 
Is  least  and  greatest ;  after  gay  saloons, 
And  soft,  seductive  luxuries,  and  forms 
Languidly  beautiful,  and  oft-heard  tones 
Have  pall'd  xipon  the  senses ;   what  delight 
Steals  o'er  the  spirit,  in  the  beautiful  haunts. 
Of  Xature,  'mid  the  silence,  and  the  shade, 
And  low,  sweet  murmurs  from  the  earth  and  air, 
And  all  the  holy  influences  that  come 
"With  blessed  gleams  of  the  blue  heavens  above ! 

Society  grows  stale,  and  men  become 
Not  what  they  were,  or  seemed  to  be.     We  change- 
All  change,  both  to  each  other,  and  ourselves. 
Our  habitudes,  our  passions,  our  delights. 
Are  ever  mutable.     But  in  these  shades, 
Amid  these  venerable  trees,  beneath 
Yon  blue  o'erarching  canopy,  where'er 
The  unshorn  majesty  of  Nature  reigns, 
3 


20 


Ml'iiiti   ]l'ix»l.<. 


TliiTo  is  a  jtI'tIous,  hii  alMuiiulinir  joy, 

Fnrt'ViT.      Nut  to  liaimts  like  these  l)elon^ 

The  palliil  eheek,  the  sickly  frame,  the  roll 

Of  feel infrs  grown  iintiimly  old:  —  But  ynii, 

Ye  wild  ami  wooded  hills,  ye  Howery  dales 

That  stretch  iK'tween  and  hask  in  liirht,  ye  roeks 

O'er  which  the  eool  siJrinp*  trickle,  and  ye  elear 

And  tlasliiiii;  rivulets,  tliat  run  alnni: 

And  niuriMur  to  tlic  wimls,  which  murmur  hack, 

— Audihle  Voices  of  the  Deity! 

— Visible  imjiress  of  Almighty  Power! 

— Bright,  hland  expression  of  Creative  Love! 

Yc  still  are  new  and  heautifid:  and  still 

Within  your  ealm  ami  unpolluted  depths 

The  thoughts  are  fresh,  the  spriuL'^y  lind)  doth  Ion: 

Ketain  its  elastieity,  the  heart 

Hroods  not  and  sickms  tiot  n'cr  ills  that  fast 

Beget  each  other,  and  the  feelings  know 

An  almost  pcriMtuitv  of  youth. 


Far-scaled  in  lliesi-  mighty  grove.-.  I  luar 
Th«'  solemn  Anthem  of  the  Centuries 
Roll  up,  as  if  the  Majesty  of  (lod 
Swept  o'er  the  l'niver.M',  aixl  s|Mtke:   tlie  low. 
I)cc|)  plaint  of  ntillioiis  that  have  lived,  and  loil'd. 
And  died,  in  hondagi — the  des|i;iiriiig  cry 
<  >f  -iruguding  hearts  that  pour'd  their  l-«rrents  out, 
And  sank  exhausted  dowu  l>i>ueuth  the  hanl 


Part  Second~18U.  27 

And  crushing  heel  of  tyranny — the  sweet, 

Sad  interhides  of  mercy,  and  of  love — 

The  glad  songs  of  deliverance — the  thick 

And  smothered  voice  of  hate — the  taunt  of  scorn — 

The  terrible  threat  of  vengeance — the  intense 

Though  whispered  oaths  that  league  determined  men, 

And  know  no  revocation — and,  o'er  all, 

The  exulting  shout  of  Freedom  from  the  hills, 

And  from  the  plains,  and  from  the  empurpled  seas ! 

And  then  peals  out  from  billowy  chimes  of  thought, 
A  wild,  irregular  song,  that  has  such  tune 
As  the  sea  sings  with,  and  a  symphony 
Like  unto  that  which  gales  from  Labrador 
Pipe  in  the  shrouds  when  waves  roll  mountain  high. 

1. 

Lift  up  your  hearts,  oh  men ! 
From  the  long  sorrow  that  has  weigh'd  them  down : 
Eternal  Justice,  from  her  starry  height. 
Stoops  earthward  through  the  dusk  of  centuries. 
To  poise  anew  the  balance  that  shall  weigh 

Henceforth  the  relative  rights 

Of  master  and  of  man. 
Of  ten  and  of  ten  tliousand,  here  on  earth. 

Lift  up  your  weary  hearts  ! — 
llejoiec !  rejoice ! 
Weighed  in  the  scales,  Oppression  kicks  the  beam. 


28  Miami    M'uoih. 


2. 

Wronj^  livctli  not  lur  aye! 
Tis  not  immortal,  as  is  common  Right: 
Kiirlit  uikI  tlu*  Truth  exist  eternally. 
But  Wrong  and  Falsehinxl  peri.-h  day  hy  day  ; 
They  perish  hy  their  own  inherent  ill — 

While  Truth,  with  hrDW  .serene, 

Lives  in  immortal  hlouni ; 
And  KiLdit,  though  haflled  ol't,  in  many  ways, 

Kises  and  reigns  at  last. — 
Kejoiee!  rejf)ice! 
Wrong  Cometh  to  its  fall,  as  (>od  is  gond. 


T.itt  up  your  luarts,  oh  men  I 
Rtretch  forth  the  arm,  and  try  its  unused  strength; 
Plant  the  foot  lirndy  on  the  galling  chain; 
IJrace  every  sinew  to  its  utmost  jxiwer; 
Now  with  inviiK-ilile  will  each  miscle  clothe: — 

lla!   how  the  fetters  fail! 

Was  this — was  lJii«  a  j-lavc? 
It  look.H  so  like  a  man,  'tis  hard  to  think 

It  otht-r  tliaii  a  man!  — 
llejoicr  I    njoiic! 
The  Man  a-fciid-:    the  Kin-'  ••ontes  to  the  dust. 


Part  Second— l^AA.  29 

A  wild,  hoarse  soug,  but  trutliful. — As  from  out 
The  laboring  bosom  of  the  Carib  Sea, 
Isle  after  isle  has  sprung,  rooted  in  rock 
And  ribb'd  with  adamant,  which  even  now 
Are  to  each  other  reaching  out  strong  arms, 
That  yet  shall  clasp,  and  firmly  interlace, 
And  circle  into  states  confederate. 
The  beauty  and  the  wonder  of  the  w^orld : 
So,  from  the  great  profound  of  Thought,  comes  up 
Truth  after  truth,  compact  and  luminous. 
Which,  each  with  each  uniting,  intertwine. 
Till,  girt  with  principle  and  grooved  in  right, 
Broad  systems  form  that  are  the  strength  of  man 
And  bulwarks  of  his  freedom. — We  behold 
Cycle  and  epicycle  rounding  back 
Into  infinitude.     We  cannot  see 
The  end  from  the  beginning.     Only  this 
With  something  like  assurance  stamps  itself 
Upon  the  mind :  that  the  great  cycle  of  all. 
In  which  these  cycles  move,  starts  from  the  base 
In  an  ascending  grade  that  knows  no  check, 
Runs  circle  after  circle,  never  joined. 
And  strengthens  to  the  summit.     This  supplies 
Larger  and  larger  fields  for  man,  and  gives 
The  soul  that  larger  freedom  which  it  seeks, 
And  has  sought  from  the  first,  continually  : 
And  with  the  larger  freedom,  still  must  come 


uO  Miami    Wi4hI'<. 

The  larj;er  forms  it  cnvits,  nud  with  tlieso 
The  full  enfranchisement  of  man,  which  is 
The  aim  and  the  attainn)tiit  nf  the  Soul: 
Fit  full  enfranchisement  is  faitli,  and  love, 
And  flmrity,  and  [K-ace  r»'er  all  the  earth. 

Hmjk'  is  from  Heaven:  then  let  man  not  clesiwiir! 
Tlic  l'l:in  of  the  Ktenial  moves  ri;;]it  on  : 
It  knows  no  ehl> — it  makes  no  pause — it  haa 
No  Ajalon.     The  cycles  fill  the  void, 
In  the  great  Cycle  upward  moving  still, 
And  resting  in  Perfection,  lull-attained 
Here  and  Hereafter — not  in  either  state 
Alone,  hut  in  Ixtth  only. — Men  despair, 
Hicken  and  die,  In-lieving  that  the  ba.«e, 
I  iiscruptdous  arts  hy  wliicli  tluir  hllow  men 
O'erreach  each  other,  must  destroy  the  \nnse 
Of  Right  forevi-r,  and  to  chaos  hack 
Hurl  fniil  Humanity.     I^ut  (iod's  high  scheme 
])ejH'nds  not  on  coiitingencics  like  the.<e: 
Men,  the  jxMtr  instruments,  may  fail  in  faith 
AinoDg  themselves,  and  lack  fidelity 
To  truth,  to  justice,  mercy,  love,  and  all 
That  liiiMiaii  n  a-oii  dt«-nis  essential  :    Vi-t, 
(i<m1  overrules  eaeh  wrong  for  right,  ami  still 
The  great  (h-sign  nti»ves  on  ami  on,  whih-  nil 
Who  falter,  |H'rish  in  their  faithlessness. 


Part  Second— -[^^44.  31 

This  is  tlic  lesson  Meditation  reads, 
Sitting  in  solitude  on  mossy  rocks, 
Or  walking  hand  in  hand  with  Nature,  here 
In  her  great  temples,  arcli'd  with  heaven's  own  blue, 
And  pillared  with  the  majesty  of  trees 
That  have  the  strength  of  centuries. — To  one 
Who  in  these  quiet  halls  is  far  removed 
From  human  passions,  vain  desires,  the  throes 
Of  party,  and  the  conflicts  of  the  field. 
How  paltry,  wicked,  miserable,  mean, 
Seem  the  contentions  of  society ! 

Turn,  thou  whose  ears  have  drunk  the  jarring 
sounds 
Of  wrangling  tongues,  in  crowded  thoroughfares 
And  busy  marts — or  thou  whose  eyes  have  looked 
On  the  red  battle-field,  and  there  beheld 
The  fpiivering  limb,  the  writhing  countenance, 
The  blackened  and  the  putrifying  corpse — 
Turn  from  all  this,  which  liker  is  to  hell 
Than  to  aught  else,  and  with  thy  soul  commune, 
Here  in  the  quiet  of  Miami  Woods. 
— Look  out  upon  the  bordering  fields,  where  spreads 
The  yellow  Avheat,  and  waves  the  tasseling  corn  ; 
Look  in,  where  the  great  heart  of  Nature  beats 
Steadily,  peacefully,  ever  full  of  love ; 
Look  down,  at  the  sweet  flowers  that  clothe  the  ground, 


3f!nmi    W<nn>h. 

BI<>umin«r  for  all,  a:      .  '--7 

Their  pert ume  for  :;.    .._...  l.^..  ..-.w^ihem; 
Look  up,  at  the  Uae  heavens  that  beod  o'er  all. 
Serene,  and  beaatiful,  and  grand,  and  good  : 
Then,  if  thou  -•.  a^k  iKL-  Utile  child, 

Wh<T»«e  5«>al  k  U"  ..  '.  -    "hat  there  k 

Id  all  this  scene,  th..  .  <t  tho?  be  calTd 

From  the  great  vorid  where  Ui^ts  the  human  heart 
In  all  its  power,  and  she  will  answer — **  God, 
And  G';<l's  own  peace,  and  n—"    •-   -^  '  -' — _-.h!* 
— In  such  a  Presence,  bend  :       - 
And  stand  nncoTered.     God,  not  man,  b  here ; 
-'-,  not  art :  dt9>imalati«xi  c 

-'-  ''^'hood  never.  ■:.->   .;  ..n. 

hence  a  better  man. 
Pray  fervwiily  for  help — for  thou  hast  need. 

■^  -  •  to  sar 

The  • .     -        -         .  ;ianns. 

And  ci>mmerc>e  with  the  workl  soon  dolls  the  ear 
T»  h. av.  iili-^t  siMinds.'   It  mav  be  eo;  but  I, 
-^     '   "^  from  eariie^  Ufe, 
flashing  brooks. 
Have  not  ao  fiHind  it : — deeper  in  my  heart, 
!*►-»  fwr  ami  «leeper  year  by  year,  has  5nnk 
Th»-  !'■%■•>  of  n;\*  '  '  !  'oz. 

.\n.l  f'.nd  om:  .iwl  waves. 


Part  Second— ISU.  33 

With  liirds  and  breezes,  with  the  starry  sky, 

The  mountain-height,  the  rocky  gorge,  the  slope 

^Mantled  with  flow'rs,  and  the  far-reaching  plain 

That  mingles  with  the  heavens.     It  is  not  so — 

It  is  not  so  save  where  the  ear  grows  dull 

To  God's  OAvn  voice,  and  the  averted  eye. 

Thick  film'd  with  sin,  is  darkened  thus,  and  lost 

To  all  his  visible  glory.     The  gi'een  fields 

Are  studded  with  their  golden  buttons  still, 

And  living  with  their  gilded  butterflies. 

That  pass  not  unobserved.     The  rocky  pool. 

In  which  the  robin  bathes  his  dusky  plumes. 

The  tufted  flow'rs  that  smile  beyond,  the  slope 

That  from  its  margin  greenly  steals  away 

To  bordering  woodlands  fill'd  with  airy  tongues, 

Still  lure  us  from  the  hot  and  dusty  road 

As  in  the  years  gone  by.'    There  come  at  morn, 

From  the  cool  groves  and  from  the  orchards  round, 

The  same  sweet  songs  of  birds  that  charm'd  the  ear 

Of  childhood,  and  of  youth  ;  and  in  the  eve 

Floats  up  from  the  broad  meadows  still,  the  same 

Sweet  smeU  of  new-made  hay.     Day  and  the  Sun 

In  all  his  glory — Xight  and  all  she  hath 

Of  beauty,  or  of  mystery,  or  joy, 

Still  hold  their  spell  upon  the  heart,  and  fill 

The  soul  with  wonder  and  with  awe.     The  earth 

Fades  not,  and  fails  not  in  its  wealth  of  charms: — • 


34  3f'ui»H   Woods. 

Wc  stvk  tlicm  now,  ns  in  niir  tarlit'st  yt.'an=. 

And  find  thcni :  avc  jtlunge  far  into  the  wikhIs, 

And  mam  tlie  flowtry  fitMs,  and  clinil)  tlir  liills, 

Not  k'Ks  the  child  tliat  mc  are  nioro  tlie  man : 

AVc  loiter  ■\vlicro  the  waters  of  the  brook 

Dance  down  the  pihhly  8loix»,  an<l  watch  the  leaf 

Or  fcatlier  tliat  i-  on  its  l>ns«pin  Ixirne, 

Till  lost  to  pi^dit :   the  little  hand  that  so<H.p'd 

The  cool  wave  up  in  childhood,  larrjer  jrrown, 

Needs  now  nr)  promi>tin<r,  but  puj^plies  the  draught 

To  tliirstv  lip  or  licated  fnreluad.      Now, 

As  then,  we  marvel  at  the  growinir  grass, 

And  at  the  blooming  flower,  ami  at  the  tree 

That  rises  up  and  pien'es  the  bhu>  sky 

Among  till-  cloiids.     The  high  heav'n-spanning  areh, 

That  evening  builds  when  storm  has  rollM  away 

And  dies  far  east,  the  purple  suns«'t's  hue, 

The  unnuiteh'd  iris  of  the  Innnminu'-binl, 

The  msi's  cup.  the  lily's  silver  IhU, 

The  bhitM-yed  violet — (tU  sights  antl  sounds 

That  Won  the  eye  or  charmM  the  ear  in  youth, 

Are  living  still.      Eternal  beauty  dies 

Within  man's  heart  but  through  eternal  sin, 

<  >r  with  annihilation.     He  who  has 

The  love  of  right,  the  fear  of  wrong,  the  hate 

And  se<)m  of  evil,  multiform  and  dark  — 

NVlio  luarkens  to  the  still  small  v<»i«e  within — 


Part  Second— ISU.  85 

Who  hourly  bids  ihe  hourly  tempter  back — 

Who  loves  his  fellow-men — who  leaves  to  Heav'n 

The  judgment  of  his  enemies:   not  to  him, 

Not  to  his  eye,  not  to  his  ear,  will  God 

Willingly  suffer  the  glad  sights  and  sounds 

Of  nature  to  grow  dim,  or  to  become 

Inaudible.      Years  change  us  not  so  much, 

Nor  commerce  with  the  world ;  but  groveling  thoughts, 

Vaulting  ambitions,  unrepressed  desires. 

Whose  oft-indulgence  blunts  the  edge  of  youth : 

Tliese  early  dim  the  eye  to  nature's  charms. 

And  early  dull  the  ear  to  heaveuliest  sounds.  ^ 

My  thoughts,  exultant  o'er  the  strides  of  time. 
Flow  as  they  list  in  novel  cadences. — 
A  cheerful  melody,  learned  long  ago, 
But  half  forgotten  now,  comes  stealing  up 
Among  remembered  tones  of  other  years, 
And  breaks  in  fitful  murmurs  from  my  lips : — 
To  this  the  currents  of  my  musing  flow 

1. 

How  lightly  on  yon  wave  the  wild  duck  sits, 
Now  floating  with  the  current,  and  anon 
Eddying  the  drowsy  hours  of  noon  away 

Where  minnows  sport,  and  where 

The  lushest  sedges  grow ! — 
So  lightly  sits  the  youth  upon  my  heart. 


Mirnvi    Wmyti*. 

,ll<>\v  lui^^litly  \i[,  fliiwn  tliis  scijucstcnil  iKll, 
Lie  the  ei><>l  (Imps  (»f  rain  that  IMI  hist  niirht, 
In  the  hat's  liollnw  and  the  \vihlth>\v<'r'.s  cup, 
Though  the  lu)t,  scoreliing  sun, 
lias  been  for  liours  athirst !  — 
80  brightly  lies  the  youth  upon  my  In-art. 


How  foutlly  unto  you  high  tree,  tiiat  lifts 
Its  folds  from  chilling  shadows  to  the  sun, 
And  iht  n-  supports  thiiu  when  thi'  tein|K>sts  rage, 

Clings  the  depen»lent  vine, 

By  every  tendril  clings  I  — 
S)  fondly  clings  the  youth  unto  my  heart. 

4. 
I  low  sweetly  on  this  knoll  the  sunshine  rests, 
Filling  with  joy  the  nioss's  wondntus  cup, 
And  calling  vinhts,  bluer  than  tlic  sky. 

From  their  long  winter  sh'cp. 

To  bless  the  earth  agjiin  !  — 
80  sweetly  rests  the  youth  upon  my  heart. 

n. 

Ib«u  lVe>hly  liis.  within  the  sweet  embrace 
<  >f  these  encircling  hills,  whose  llowiiy  sIojk'S 


PaH  Second— 1RA4.  37 

Strctcli  to  its  marge,  tliis  clear  and  shining  pool, 

"Whose  waters  ever  flow 

From  yon  half  hidden  rock! — 
So  freshly  lies  the  youth  within  my  heart. 

A  simple  melody,  got  long  ago : 
A  cheerful  thought,  more  difficult  to  learn. — 
So  lightly,  fondly,  sweetly,  freshly  lies 
The  youth  within  my  heart:  so  rest  it  there! 
'Tis  only  feeling  makes  us  old:  our  years 
But  hear  us  toward  the  grave.     We  all  must  die, 
But  must  not  all  grow  old,  except  in  years. 
— ^The  groves,  whose  beauty  and  whose  music  st(jle 
Into  my  wondering  sj^irit  long  ago, 
"Were  ne'er  more  beautiful  than  now,  were  ne'er 
More  musical.     I  come  and  walk  the  ways 
Of  boyhood,  and  I  find  the  flowers  the  same : 
I  pause,  and  sit  in  old  familiar  seats. 
And  see  no  change,  save  that  the  gathering  mold 
Is  greener,  and  that  now  upon  them  press 
IMosses  and  lichens  of  a  few  more  years. — • 
The  youtli  is  in  the  heart  of  Nature,  too ! 

Beautiful,  beautiful  Youth! — Freshness  is  youth, 
And  truthfulness  is  youth,  and  innocence; 
And  faith,  and  love,  and  joyousuess  are  youth : 
Whatever  undistorted  stands,  and  wears 


38  Mitimi    M'ihhIs. 

The  impress  iuhI  the  irlnw  with  wliich  at  first 
It  came  fnun  ('">t\,  is  |i;iii'i]>Ii((l  in  ynuth. 
It  jrathers  not  the  dust  <  f  tiiiu- — it  takes 
No  tarnish  from  the  earth — hut  walks  ahr^ad 
EfriilL'cnt  with  the  ;.dory  of  its  Source, 
And  trailing  rolies  of  Inauty  evermore. 

^ly  soul  is  full;  and  from  its  stirrint:  depths. 
Oh,  hrautifnl  young  heart  I  whose  tendrils  cling 
So  closely  round  my  own,  flow,  overflow, 
These  fervent  strains  to  thine:  — 

1. 

Child  of  my  love! 
Count  it  a  lilcssing  that  tliou  also  art 
The  chilli  of  Nature,  and  the  lineal  luir 
Of  all  the  wealth  of  charms  that  she  bestows 

UjH^n  her  votaries 

2 
The  morning  air, 
That  to  thy  chajidu-r,  ere  thou  art  awake. 

Comes  with  t 1  lips,  fre.-h-hathed  in  meadowy  dews, 

And  kisses  thy  young  cheek;  the  choral  songs, 
That  on  th»^  freshening  hree/.e,  from  ringing  groves, 
I'loiit  sweetly  up  ami  sing  thee  from  thy  .sleep; 
The  glittering  grass,  that  in  the  sun's  tirst  heam 


Pad  Secoml—lSU.  39 

Mimics  the  midnight  heav'us  ;  the  holy  calm 
That,  like  a  blessed  influence  from  God, 
Prompts  thy  young  heart  to  prayer:  these,  loved  one, 
these 

Are  of  thy  heritage. 

3. 

The  solemn  hush 
Of  summer  noons, — when  o'er  the  city  sweeps, 
Sirocco-like,  each  fitful  breath  of  air, 
Till  men  sink  down  exhausted,  and  for  hours, 
lu  languid  half-repose,  fond  mothers  lie 
And  fan  their  suffering  infants, — comes  to  thee 
With  clieerful  gleams  of  blue  and  peaceful  skies, 
And  quiet  whispers  from  sweet  pebbly  brooks, 
That  glide  along  in  shadow,  mingled  oft 
"With  drowsy  murmurs,  in  the  sunny  air, 
Of  many  insect  tribes,  and  fitful  songs 
From  dark  ancestral  cedars  stealing  out, 
Where  wearied  wings  are  folded.     Blessed  lot! 
Which  thou  inheritest,  and  dost  possess, 

As  Nature's  child  and  mine. 

4. 

Thine  is  the  eve 
Of  healthful  breezes  that  come  freshening  up 
From  springy  dells  and  wooded  wild  ravines, 


40  Mi'imi    ]Vofnl*. 

From  l)r«ia<l,  clear  rivers,  wliere  they've  kissM  tin-  wave 
And  stolen  it^:  coolness,  and  from  pastoral  slopes 
Alive  with  herds,  whose  breath  they've  gathered  up 
III  all  its  sweetness,  and  now  bring  to  thee. 
The  oriole  greets  thee  from  his  hanging  Ixjwer; 
The  sparrow  sings  f  tr  thee;  the  simthern  wren 
Echoes  the  canlinars  resounding  notes; 
The  catbird  leads  the  Ves|iers  sweetly  on. 
Till  sets  the  sun;   and  then  the  hermit  thrush, 
(^iiiet  all  flay  in  farn)!!'  thickets,  comes 
Nearer  at  night's  appmacli.  ami  pours  his  soul 
In  ravishing  melodies,  till  all  the  air 
Is  living  with  his  spirit. 


And  thine  the  night. 
All  starr'd  with  glnry,  and  all  fdlM  wiili  tone 
That  come  down  Ipim  the  Infinite,  and  link 
Our  lu'ing  with  the  cldcr-boni  nf  Time, 
I'jtrnity,  Existence  uncreate: 
Voices  that  speak  in  dreams,  or  memories. 
Or  consciousness  yet  faint  and  undefined, 
( )t'  rn-H'xistenci^ — states,  conditions,  forms, 
That  arc  imt  now,  but  whither  we  are  borne, 
T<i  the  Inevitable  and  the  Dimhu, 
Mav  1h'  again,  or  not,  as  now  ami  here 

We  haply  win  <'r  l"se. 


Part  Hmmd—lM-i. 


41 


G. 

Child  of  my  love ! 
Oh,  count  it  fortunate  thou  art  the  child 
Of  Nature  also.     To  this  double  bond 
Be  faithful.     Coming  years  will  tempt  thee  sore — 
But  in  the  trials  and  the  triumplis  Life 
IMay  have  in  store  for  thee,  forget  thou  not 
The  haunts  Avhereiu  thy  childhood  met  with  love, 
And  peace,  and  beauty;  where  in  tranquil  ways 
Thy  chafing  spirit  thou  didst  often  soothe ; 
And  where,  as  thy  young  heart  has  felt,  God  walked 

^Yith  Nature  and  with  thee. 


•12  Miami    M'lOtf.i. 


1831. 

TriK  sprinpr  is  here,  an  ever-welcome  j«»y, 
With  all  its  <:ifts  of  loaf,  and  hiid,  antl  (lower. 
And  all  its  wealth  of  hree/e,  and  hinl,  ami  sonir  t 
And  1  a:M  with  tin-  s|)rinir — a  sharer  frii> 
In  all  the  sweet  deliirhts  she  hrinirs  from  heaven. 
And  scatters  o'er  the  earth  with  liln-ral  hand. 

IIiiw  LTatel'id  are  these  haunt,-.  u]>  intu  wliieh 
I  now  ascend,  to  om-  \s  hose  spirit  chafes 
A  mill  the  din  of  cities,  where  .<<»  mnch 
Tiiat  is  the  work  of  hnman  hands  ai»j)eai*s. 
And  wlnre  remains  so  little  that  was  ChmI's! 
Ahnvt-  me,  jiatchi'S  of  Ithie  >kv  an-  .>hown  ; 
IJelow,  mosaic-plats  n-ach  far  away. 
Of  varied  mosses  maile,  and  shining'  irniss. 
And  early  llnuer^,  lit  np  hy  (piivt'rini;  flake.s 
( )f  sun  that,  stru<:t:lini;  thronudi  the  swayintr  trees, 
I'all  warnj  to  earth;   while  .<cattere<l  all  anmnd. 
Where  ojH-ninirs  irive  the  hrirze  and  snn  free  play, 
Ani  sweet-hriar  clumps,  and  natuml  nrl)ors  nmde 
By  wild-L:raiH'S  clandK-rini^  over  doj^wiKid  tops. 


P>id  Third— l^rA.  43 

Aud  trailing  thence  to  earth.     Ahmit  my  lirow, 
Drying  the  locks  which  the  long  winding  walk 
Has  moistened,  freshly  play  soft  meadowy  winds, 
That  bear  the  violet's  breath  from  sunny  nooks, 
And  from  the  blossoms  of  the  jieudant  vine 
Steal  odors  sweeter  than  the  spicy  airs 
Of  Eden,  that  revisit  us  in  dreams. 
Clear,  purling  rills,  that  lave  the  calamus-root, 
And  gently  glide  among  the  mint  aud  cress, 
Then  dance  and  sparkle  where  the  pebbly  bed 
Slopes  to  the  brimming  pool,  sing  o'er  again 
The  songs  of  Siloa's  brook,  erst  heard  of  old 
By  prophets  in  the  groves  of  Palestine. 
Nor  wiud  and  wave  alone ;  but  all  the  wide 
Green  wood  is  voiceful ;  aud  from  fretted  roof, 
Aud  groined  arch,  rolls  out  an  anthem  sound, 
Whose  clear,  deeji  tones,  make  these  primeval  halls, 
Spreading  in  many-pillared  majesty. 

Holy  and  beautiful Eternal  God ! 

Thanks  for  the  freshness  of  the  early  spring ! 
Thauks  for  the  flowers  in  uufrequcnted  ways 
That  bud  aud  bloom  !  and  fur  the  feathered  tribes 
Which  dart  like  arrows  by,  and  fill  the  groves 
With  melody  !  aud  for  the  towering  trees 
Tliat  wall  this  temple  in,  '  not  made  with  hands,' 
In  which  I  worship !     Thanks,  Supremest  Good, 
For  the  soft  airs  that  blow  upon  me  now ! 


44  Mtmni    UW/x. 

And  f(jr  the  sunny  hills  :unl  ^tussv  plains 

O'er  which  tlu'V  wuntier,  like  the  nuirniuriug  bee, 

Gathering  all  subtle  essences  at  will! 

An(i  for  all  si<,'htj<,  and  sounds,  and  j^erfunies  sweet. 

That  make  the  ecstiu^y  which  here  I  feel, 

Accei)t  these  thanks,  O  Father.     ...     I  am  here, 

Again,  ^[iami!    mid  the  holy  calm 

That  in  the  soul  of  thy  va.«t  solitude 

Reigns  ever,  si^ve  when  broken  by  the  rush 

Of  temiK-sts,  or  the  harsh  and  terrible  tones 

Of  thunder,  that  with  arrowy  lightnings  come 

And  piirce  thy  still  recesses.     I  am  here — 

The  same,  yet  not  the  same,  as  when  at  first, 

In  mild,  reflective  mood,  and  artless  verse. 

I  sang  thy  charms,  and  lil'te<l  from  their  midst 

My  heart  to  God.     The  .>-ame,  yet  not  the  sante : 

For  on  the  dial-j)late  of  Life,  since  then, 

The  shadow  of  my  (juickly  rounding  years 

Has  nnnd)ered  twelve.     And  I  have  wandered  far. 

Anil  iiiiich  have  si-en  of  glory  and  of  grief; 

And  much  have  known  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 

And  much  have  thought  of  human  j)ride  and  pomp. 

AVhi<'h  are  the  sorriest  and  baldest  things 

Tlie  iiididgent  eye  of  Ibaven  looks  down  tipon. 

The  same,  yet  not  the  same:   three  cherub  forms 

Have  lain  within  my  partner's  breast,  since  then, 

That  now  lie  in  the  earth — three  birdlings  fair 


Part  77urd— 1851.  45 

Sung  on  my  knee,  that  sing  in  heaven  now. 

And  one  who  oftenest  wandered  with  me  here, 

The  wildest  and  tlie  merriest  tliat  then 

Had  blessed  our  love  and  hojie,  in  whom  I  saw 

Renewed  the  freshness  of  my  youth,  and  felt 

Again  its  mantling  bloom,  in  darkness  now 

And  dreariness  is  whclm'd,  by  sad  ecli^^sc 

Of  reason,  and  attending  woes  that  Avear 

The  body  thin,  and  vex  the  spirit.     Here, 

Ilajjly,  she  may  not  come  again  ;  but  here, 

In  her  bright  youth  and  all-abounding  love. 

She  '11  live  with  me  forever,  though  the  gloom 

That  wraps  her  now  mysterious  Providence 

May  ne'er  dispel.     The  same,  yet  not  the  same : 

'T  was  Autumn  then  in  thy  deep  heart,  Avhich  mourn'd 

Its  summer  glories,  passing  fast  away ; 

But  in  my  own,  perpetual  fountains  played, 

And  to  perpetual  hopes,  that  clustered  there, 

Gave  brightest  bloom.     But  Autumn  now  has  come 

To  my  bereaved  heart,  which  inly  moans 

For  withered  hopes  and  blighted  flowers  of  love. 

While  thine  is  full  of  gushing  melodies, 

And  sunniest  slopes,  and  green  and  bloomy  nooks. 

Sorrow  is  not  despair,  but  rather  hope  : — 
And  thus  again  my  pensive  musings  flow 
Tu  snatches  of  another  melody, 


46  }fi'i,n;      ]]'..<,■!.<. 

That  in  the  heat  of  li-t'ling  uow  cunie  out 
On  the  dim  plain  nf  memory,  as  stamps 
Wnrn  an«l  uhlitcrateil  Inntr  fmm  coin, 
By  fire  are  to  the  surface  l)rought  again. 

1. 

All !    \vtll-a-wny  ! 
The  cliiiiil  will  come  ;   hut  after  comes  tin-  sun. 
V'lUtli  lies  within  the  heart.  au<l  youth  and  sorrow 
Were  never  stran^^'ers  since  the  Eden-fall. 
Sorrow  descends  upon  the  flower  of  vouth, 
As  snow  ujxiu  the  <-riiiisun  April-i)looni, 
Not  with  a  hlighting  chill,  hut  with  a  soft 
And  kiiidlv  pressure,  that  to  youth  irivcs  strength, 
Warmth  to  the  crimson  hlossont,  an<l  to  ht\\\ 

The  |iannply  that  shields 

J''r<>iii  at'ter-eoiniiii:  storms. 


2. 

Ah!    well-a-wayl 
Sin  \\a<  Ixl:''!  in  lit  II,  ami  sormw  Imin 
In  I'Men,  hut  the  two  an*  ever  twinn'd.' 
AN'itliDUt  the  sin  the  .sorrow  might  not  come: 
I'ut  with  the  sin,  the  sorrow  is  a  hriglit, 
Ivedeeining  angel.  |Miinting  lo  a  time 
When  sin  \\a>  nut  ;   (<•  an  eternity 
When  >in  -IimII  lie  no  more;    nud    |..  m  <  '<"\ 


Part  Third— 1851.  47 

Who  in  his  mercy  gave  the  sorrow  birth, 
That  thus  the  siii  might  die, 
And  man  again  be  pure. 

So  sang  I  but  a  little  mouth  ago, 
AValkiug  -within  ambrosial  groves,  that  look'd 
Out  on  green  pastures,  over  gleaming  waves. 
And  now,  so  quickly  iu  this  genial  clime 
The  fair  and  fruitful  seasons  follow  on, 
The  bright  and  full-robed  summer-time  is  here. 
— How  beautifully  glimmer  on  my  sight 
The  fresh  green  fields  afiir !     How  grandly  rise 
The  groves  that  gloom  around  me !     What  a  hush 
Broods  o'er  this  dell !     And  how  yon  hillside  basks 
In  the  full  blaze  of  this  unspotted  day ! 
All  these  have  been  my  haunts  from  childhood  up ; 
And  only  recent  years  have  made  my  feet 
Once  unfamiliar  with  their  flowery  paths. 
But  absence  has  not  robbed  them  of  a  charm, 
Nor  distance  of  their  sweet  attractiveness ; 
And  my  heart  tui'ns  to  them  as  to  old  friends. 

Morn  after  morn  my  footsteps  hither  tend  ; 
Noon  after  noon  the  slundjerous  silence  fills 
My  yearning  heart,  which  still  has  aching  voids; 
Eve  aftt-r  eve  I  linger  hcn^  alnne, 
Piercing  tlie  sliadow  of  the  day  that  is. 


48  Miami    Woods. 

To  find  the  sunlight  of  the  days  that  wero. 

— The  April  Hush  has  parted  from  the  wotnls; 

The  redolent  airs  of  May  have  gone  to  rest 

AVith  l«x;ust-tai5sels  and  the  wild-grajxi's  bloom  ; 

The  hluc-eyed  violet  no  more  is  seen 

Peeping  from  mos.sy  eoverts  at  the  sky 

Tiiat  looks  down  through  the  tree-tops;  from  the  slopes 

The  tremulous  ancmnne  is  gone; 

The  dandelions,  that  on  the  grassy  plains 

AVero    beautiful, — fleeks  from  the  golden  eurls 

Of  bright  Aurora  thrown, — have  pass'd  away. 

These  wen-  tlic  firstlings  of  the  oin-ning  Year; 

And  like  the  fii-stlings  of  the  human  heart. 

The  iM-autiful  yuung  hopi-s  that  spring  to  light 

And  jH'risli  as  the  sternt-r  days  eome  on, 

They  are  nn  inure.     A  stalt  lier  growtli  is  nuw 

Giving  green  glory  to  the  forest-ai.«iles, 

And  iH'auty  to  the  meadows.     Far  awav 

Tiie  alder-thicket,  rolu-d  in  brightest  bl<M)m, 

Is  shining  like  a  sunlit  cl.>iid  at  rest  ; 

Ncan  r,  I  lie  liriar-n>sis  li.ad  the  air 

With  swcftness  ;   and  where  yon  half-iiidden  feiiee 

And  toppling  eabin  mark  the  Tione^'r's 

First  habitation  in  the  wilderness, 

The  gay  bignonia  to  the  ridge-poli>  elimbs. 

The  yellow  willow  spreads  its  geiu-roiis  tihade 

Around  the  ( 1  .-pring's  margin,  and  the  old 


Part  TIiird-~1851.  49 

And  bout  catalpa  waves  its  fan-like  leaves 

And  lifts  its  milk-white  blossoms.     Beautiful ! 

Around  me  here  rise  up  majestic  trees 

That  centuries  have  nurtured:  graceful  elms, 

Which  interlock  their  limbs  among  the  clouds; 

Dark-columned  walnuts,  from  whose  liberal  store 

The  nut-brown  Indian  maids  their  baskets  fill'd 

Ere  the  first  Pilgrims  knelt  on  Plymouth  Rock; 

Gigantic  sycamores,  whose  mighty  arms 

Sheltered  the  Redman  in  his  Avigwam  prone, 

What  time  the  Xorsemen  roamed  our  chartless  seas ; 

And  towering  oaks,  that  from  the  subject  plain 

Sprang  when  the  builders  of  the  tumuli 

First  disappeared,  and  to  the  conquering  hordes 

Left  these,  the  dim  traditions  of  their  race 

That  rise  around,  in  many  a  form  of  earth 

Tracing  the  plain,  but  shrouded  in  the  gloom 

Of  dark,  impenetrable  shades,  that  fall 

From  the  far  centuries.     Eternal  night, 

Rayless  and  ruthless,  where  this  luminous  day 

Displays  its  varied  and  resplendent  charms! 

I  turn  from  that  to  these,  as  from  a  book 

Wliose  lids  are  scaled,  to  one  whose  open  leaves 

Are  full  of  wisdont  and  of  beauty.     See! 

How  through  the  higli-arch'd  windows  of  the  trees 

That  line  this  bank,  the  fresh  green  landscape  glows! 

And  how  from  the  broad  mirror  of  yon  stream 


50  J//<(»ii   M'tHHl.*. 

TIio  glintini;  niys  of  th<>  l)ri::lit  s;iii  are  tiirnM  I 
Liki;  fiery  arrows  quivering  through  the  gloom 
Of  forest-aisles,  they  gliuioe  iip«m  iiic  now, 
But  break  iu  gfilden  fragments 'round  my  feet. 

The  (luiet  of  a  tranquil  niiml  is  where 
You  Ijomestead  stamls  aniid  emlwweriug  vines. 
Anil  clustering  fruits;  and  where  yon  merry  groups 
Of  children  sit  beueath  the  majjle  shade. 
Wreathing  sweet  garlands  for  Ciich  other's  bright 
And  sunny  brows,  is  innocence;  and  where 
Yon  plowman  meditates  amidst  his  corn, 
Dark  and  luxuriant,  Plenty  sitd  and  smiles! 
And  Peace  is  heard,  in  nuiny  a  gentle  sound 
Of  tinkling  Ik-U  and  lowing  cattle,  where 
Yon  herd  kiiet-tl.(|)  in  lushest  gnisses  feeds, 
And  where  yon  mower  from  his  heavy  swath 
Kiscs,  and  rests,  and  whets  his  ringing  scythe. 
On  the  green,  skirting  slojw  that  lies  lMyi>nil, 
Where  fitfid  shadows  with  the  sunshine  play, 
And  where  white  (locks  iu  statue-like  reptsc 
Are  gathere«l  umler  solitary  cbns, 
There  sleeps  the  luauty  of  i\  dreau)  of  Heaven, 
And  ovtT  all  the  scene  the  <-alm  blue  sky 
Hcuds  in  its  summer  glory,  stooping  down 
Amid  soft  cloud-i  that  kiss  the  sunny  cheeks 
Of  airv  liills,  and  lliciv  hang  motionless. 


rart  Third— ISrA.  51 

How  beautiful !  how  joyous !  liow  sercuc ! 
Yet  oil !  liow  desolate,  bereft  of  her 
luto  whose  youDg  and  all-imiiressive  heart 
The  silcuce  aud  the  beauty  of  the  sceue 
So  deeply  sauk  whcu  first  she  hither  came. 
Her  years  then  numbered  ten ;  aud  six  since  then 
Have  woven  their  summer  garlands  for  her  brow ; 
And  one  has  brought  the  cyj)ress  and  the  yew, 
Aud  laid  upon  her  heart — her  glad  young  heart ! 
The  day  was  one,  like  this,  of  untold  charms. 
Earth,  heaven,  the  waters,  aud  the  Avandering  winds, 
Each  lent  its  tribute  to  make  up  a  whole 
AVhose  memories  are  written,  even  now. 
In  lines  of  light  which  darkness  can  not  dim. 
We  Avandered  uj)  and  down ;  now  in  these  groves, 
Now  on  the  rims  of  meadow-plats,  anon 
Far  in  the  silent  wood.     A  summer's  day 
She  gathered  flowers,  and  mock'd  the  birds,  and  blew 
The  time  o'  the  day  on  grey-beard  dandelions. 
"When  eve  approached,  Ave  hither  came,  and  paused, 
Struck  Avith  the  various  beauty  of  the  sceue. 
She  sat  beside  me  on  this  grassy  knoll, 
That  looks  out  on  it  all,  aud  gazed  aud  gazed 
Until  that  mind,  so  darken'd  now,  Avas  fill'd 
With  light  from  heaven,  aud  love  for  earth,  and  joy 
That  in  such  pleasant  places  God  had  cast 
Our  lot.     We  lingered  till  the  sun  A\'ont  down  ; 


52  Miami    ]1'i><hI<. 

Then,  silent  as  the  shadows  of  tlie  niirht 

That  gathered  round  us,  took  our  honiewunl  way. 

Sweet  scene!  sweet  memories!  how  ye  brighten  up, 
And  throng  the  ways  that  to  tlie  burdened  luart 
Ijead  in,  with  incidents  of  many  years 
Crowding  a  single  moment  I     .     .     .    Time  wore  on: 
Iler  sch<M)l — my  avocations — city  life, 
That  puts  so  many  fetters  on  the  limlis, 
Conspired  to  limit,  and  at  times  prevent. 
Our  visits  to  the  farther  soJituiUs. 
And  green  savannas,  and  c(h>1,  vocal  groves, 
Tliat  in  tlie  bosom  of  Miami  WimkIs 
Still  oHlr  to  the  over-weariitl  heart 
'Hh'  silence  and  the  solace  that  it  craves. 
r>iit  iiutiiing  niaile  us  strangers  Itrrr: — we  came 
When  came  the  bluebird  and  the  violet — 
And  when  the  summ»'i-s  put  their  glory  on. 
We  stood  within  its  radiance — and  our  hearts 
(irew  pensive  in  the  golden  <piietud«» 
That  <-ame  wlu-n  Autumn  brought  her  mi.'«ty  airs, 
And  sang  the  s<'ason's  re<piiem.      Not  a  year, 
(  M'  five  that  flow'd  in  light  and  In-auty  on, 
l':i>>'d  "Ver  witlmul  luiiiging  ns  to  bathi- 
( >ur  spirits  in  the  <piiet  imioIs  of  Thought 
'i'hat  lay  unrullled  here.      Iler  early  love 
Of  Nature,  fostert-d  bv  these  int«rviews, 


FaH  Third— 18'A.  53 

Grew  stronger  day  by  day,  and  through  the  bonds 

Of  common  sympathy,  she  soon  became 

A  part  of  all  this  scene,  and  it  of  her. 

I  see  her  now,  through  sluuhjws  and  through  tears, 

In  all  her  beauty  wandering  by  my  side, 

And  hear  her  voice,  with  snatches  of  old  song. 

Swell  up,  and  die  away,  and  wake  again. 

— Vain  apparition!   memories  vainer  still! 

Ye  make  me  feel  how  much  alone  I  am, 

More  than  I  felt  before :  ye  bend  the  bow, 

And  barb  the  arrows  that  transfix  my  heart. 

Oh,  from  this  scene  the  bloom  hath  faded  now; 
And  that  which  was  the  soul  of  it  to  me, 
The  glory  and  the  grace,  sits  far  away. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  sorrow  big 
With  all  that  can  affright,  or  overwhelm. 

.    .    .    INIy  heart  would  break — my  stricken  heart 
would  break. 
Could  I  not  pour  upon  the  murmuring  winds, 
"NVhen  thus  it  swells,  the  burden  of  its  woe. 
In  words  that  soothe,  how  sad  soe'er  they  be. 

1. 
Sweet  bird  that,  deep  in  beechen  shades  embower'd, 
Sittest  and  pour'st  the  sorrow  of  thy  heart, 


Miami    Wood-'. 

Till  all  the  wunds  arouiul 

Thro!)  as  in  lu-avy  jrrirl" — 
Muiiiii  now  with  nu-:   in  (Icojx'st  shades  of  sorrow 
Sit.s  n>y  louc  licart,  ami  jMiurs  its  plaint  of  woe, 

Till  in  sad  nnison 

Throbs  every  heart  around. 

«) 

Pwect  brook,  that  over  shininir  pebbles  glidest 
In  (juiet,  with  a  low  and  plaintive  nxian. 

Made  to  the  listening  woculs 

And  to  the  leaning  (lowers — 
Mourn  now  with  n»e :   like  thine  my  Hie  in  «piiet 
Gliiles  on  and  on,  with  songs  of  f1..\v.r<  nnd  w. ....!<; 

Nor  asks  a  gayer  scene, 

Or  otiur  auditors. 

Sweet  summer  wind,  lliat,  high  among  the  Immehes 
( )!'  elm,  and  po|)lar.  and  of  towering  oak, 

Sighest  the  morning  out, 

Sighest  the  evening  in — 
Mourn  now  with  me:   in  and  from  early  Ixiyhood, 
I've  loved  with  yon  these  loni"  and  sinless  haunts, 

Nor  asked  to  pour  my  song 

Where  the  proud  World  might  hear. 


Fart  Third— 18bh  55 


4. 
Sweet  bird,  sweet  brook,  sweet  summer  wind,  oli  listen  I 
Come  to  me  from  the  throbbing  beecheu  shade, 

From  moaning  hollows  come. 

And  from  the  sighing  trees — 
Mourn  now  with  me :  mourn  for  the  dear  one  absent, 
Who  loved  you  with  a  love  as  strong  as  mine : 

Mourn  for  the  mind's  eclipse — 

Unutterable  woe ! 

Beyond  the  cloud  that  darkens  the  sweet  morn 
The  sun  shines  ever.     When  the  rain  has  pass'd. 
The  grass  is  robed  in  diamonds,  and  the  pools 
Dimple  with  every  breeze.    'Behind  the  tears 
That  gather  in  the  gentle  maiden's  eyes 
When  feelingly  she  sings  her  saddest  song. 
The  laugh  lurks  ever,  showing  bright  through  all, 
And  bringing  to  her  bosom  quick  relief.., 
'Sorrow  is  strong;  and  from  its  roots,  that  clasp 
Rebellious  passions  in  the  Eden-life, 
It  sends  out  folds  that  wind  about  the  heart, 
And  tendrils  that  cling  to  it  evermore : 
But  these  oft  Iseautify,  and  even  at  times 
Support ;  and  were  this  never  so,  beyond 
The  roots  of  sorrow  lies  the  birth  of  hope — 
And  hope  is  mightier  than  sorrow,  far. 


5<>  Mimni    ]1'(i(kI<. 


JJart  iFouith. 

1882. 

^IiAMi  \\'i>i)i>-!      I'loiii  1  >ii>y  scoiU'S  uf  liti', 
Of  viuintin;,'  littleness  juul  trcttinir  state, 
Of  vain  ambitions;  and  repulsive  priile, 
Of  sin,  anil  sorrow,  and  nefarious  wrong, 
I  cDiiic  atrain  for  nifilitalinii,  peace, 
And  healthful  exercise,  to  these  far  liaunts, 
Wiiert-  human  passions  have  not  yet  destroy'd 
The  calm  repose,  the  majesty,  the  nuLdit, 
Ol'  Natiiie.      SuiimuT  here  has  LMrhindid 
The  pillars  ..f  these  ^dorious  temples  rouiiil, 
Ami  laid  tin-  liirht  mosaic  floor,  iind  huilt 
The  ;.M"oini'd  arches,  and  spread  out  almve 
Tiic  Intled  roof.      And  here  I  irladly  .-teal 
I'rom  the  hut  irlare  of  day,  and    fnmi  the  strife 
Of  cver-clashiniLr  interests,  that    make 
Society  the  thint:  it  shoidd  not  Ik-, 
Not  only  to  coMimunc  with  my  own  soul 
In  snlitiidc,  hut  'ndd  these  i-alm  retreats 
To  contemplate  the  husy  world  without, 
Its  InLrher  aims,  its  littleness,  its  pride, 
AihI  the  "d''unlic  nuannesses  that  make 


Pali  Fourth— 18rj2.  57 

Sin  of  repute  by  contrast!     .     .     .     Come  with  me, 

Ye  Avliose  hearts  sicken  at  the  tales  of  ayoc, 

Oppression,  avarice,  hatred,  lust  and  war. 

Which  faster  than  the  winds  now  fly  about : 

Stand  with  me  here  upon  the  forest's  edge, 

And  look  out  on  the  quiet,  happy  homes, 

That  dot  the  landscape,  each  with  plenty  bless'd, 

And  crown'd  with  sweet  content,  so  rarely  found : 

See  the  broad,  sunny  fields  of  ripening  grain, 

How  peacefully  they  lie !  the  orchards  see, 

Loaded  with  shining  fruits  !  the  garden  spots, 

Bright  with  their  vegetation !  and  the  wide. 

Smooth  meadow-lands,  with  lowing  herds  alive, 

And  bleating  flocks !     Look  out  upon  it  all — 

Its  peace,  its  plenty,  its  sequestered  joys — 

And  say  if  this  shall  e'er  become  the  scene 

Of  blood  and  carnage :  if  disastrous  war, 

AVith  rampant  horrors  and  unsparing  lust, 

Shall  evci  desolate  these  happy  homes ! 

— The  plains  of  Greece,  Italia's  sunny  vales. 

All  Europe's  broad  expanse,  fit  answer  give, 

If  human  passions  rule  without  restraint. 

And  bold  ambition  be  not  held  in  check. 

What  is  the  lesson  of  the  past?     O'er  earth, — 
So  runs  the  bloody  chronicle, — the  sword 
Has  claim'd  dominion  ever.     By  the  plow 


Miami    ]Voodi<. 

raticiil  ami  tuiHiiLr  industry  has  striven, 

Ami  turiiM  the  soil,  and  phmted ;  but  the  sword 

Has  cut  tlie  harvest,  and  its  in}Tinidi)ii3 

Ilavf  filled  their  g:iruers  lirst.     To  charge  aud  hold 

The  distalf,  and  to  ply  the  l)usy  wheel, 

Has  been  the  Woman's  o(Kee;   but  the  spear 

Has  caught  the  thread  upon  its  gory  ixjiut, 

And  had  it  woven  into  trappings  gay 

For  comiuering  legions.     Where  the  falchion  ilash'J 

The  cross  has  crumbled  :   where  the  battle-shout 

Has  risen,  there  the  prayer  has  died  away : 

Aud  in  the  populous  valleys,  where  the  tramp 

Of  armed  hosts  has  sounded  like  the  sea, 

'Mid  rapine,  and  debauch,  aud  smoke,  and  flame, 

The  happy  homes  of  innocence  and  peace 

Have  disai)peared.     Ambititm,  leagued  with  lust, 

T>aid  his  red  hand  upon  the  ancient  worhl. 

And  it  stood  still  with  terror. — Earth  again, 

In  (luse  the  later  years,  has  been  the  scene 

Of  deadliest  conflicts,  till  ti-nilic  throes 

Have  rent  the  bosom  of  society. 

Thrones  then  have  rock'tl,  and  rulers  stoixl  airliast. 

As  if  this  solid  and  substantial  orb 

Were  (juaking  under  them,  and  gaping  scams 

Hi.'Jsed  for  their  quick  engidfnienf.      Wild,  anil  licrcc 

And  desolating  |H'riotls  have  jmissM. 

Till  Horror's  maw  was  glutted,  and  he  .<ank 


PaH  Fouiih—lS52.  59 

Sated  Avitli  Wood.     Peace  then  has  come  again, 
With  her  benignant  voice,  and  countenance 
Haloed  lilce  a  divinity's ;  and  men. 
Led  captive  by  her  many  beautiful  ways, 
And  by  the  majesty  that  girt  her  round. 
And  by  the  providence  that  she  displayed, 
And  by  the  prosperous  arts  that  sprung  to  life 
Where'er  she  pass'd,  have  risen  and  followed  her. 

But  still  the  sword  asserts  dominion ;  still 
War  eateth  out  the  substance  of  the  lands : 
And  Avhen,  oh !  when  shall  human  tongue  proclaim, 
Peace  is  tJie  throned  divinity  of  Earth ! 
Order  and  Freedom  are  her  ministers ! 

Order  and  Freedom !  this  God's  highest  gift, 
That  his  primordial  law — distinct,  yet  one — 
For  without  union  neither  can  endure. 
This  running  wild,  that  darting  from  the  grooves 
Of  due  adjustment.     How  the  equipoise 
Fails  in  the  roll  of  nations  from  the  first! 
That  is  not  Freedom,  Avhich  of  old  in  Greece 
Oiled  the  glib  tongues  of  cunning  orators, 
Till  with  proclaimed  respect  for  human  rights 
The  Avails  of  senates  echoed  that  which  was, 
If  not  the  hollowest  mockery  and  scorn, 
A  blistering  satire  on  the  very  name 


GO  Jifiami   Woods. 

Of  Liberty.     Tliut  is  nut  Frccdi)ni  wliicli 

Has  fed  so  oft  Parisiuu  guillotines 

With  l)li.(i(l  that  cried  to  Gotl  aud  man  fur  quick 

And  terrible  revenge.     Nor  freedom  that, 

No  matter  who  or  what  may  call  it  so, 

Wiiich  is,  in  any  form,  but  f«»ul  misuse 

Of  lil)erty  to  think,  and  speak,  and  act: 

'T  is  but  licentiousness,  and  soon  or  late. 

By  boisterous  and  brutish  courses,  thwarts 

The  end  it  aims  at.     Nor  is  OnoEU  that 

Which  rcignetl  in  War.-aw,  wlun  the  reil-winged  scourge 

From  Russia  madly  swept  o'er  Polaml's  plains. 

Nor  Order  that  which  gave  to  mo«lcrn  Rome 

A  seeming  quiet,  when  the  serried  ranks 

Pass'd  from  the  bubbling  chaos  that  is  France, 

Aud  stifled  the  awakening  soul  of  Right 

And  Freedom  on  the  fields  of  old  renown. 

Order  is  never  that,  whate'er  its  name, 

Which  moves  engirt  by  intellectual  thralls, 

Or  bristling  iron  flashing  stern  conunand  : 

This  is  but  chain'd  (lisorder,  that,  with  eyes 

Which  never  sleep,  and  sinews  ne'er  unbraced, 

Wutdus  and  waits  its  moment,  when,  self-l<H)sed, 

It  breaks  all  lK)unds,  aud  mocks  all  consequouco — 

Prostrating  by  its  fierce,  convulsive  thnH\<», 

Order  aud  freedom  both  :  then  Chaos  reigus. 


Part  Fourth— 1S52.  61 

Dread  picture— dark  and  dread !  My  Country,  tliou 
Who  sitt'st  among  the  nations  like  a  queen 
On  whom  all  eyes  are  fixed,  upon  thy  brow 
The  Khoinoor  of  regal  gems  is  worn — 
The  Mount  of  Light,  within  whose  steady  ray 
The  wandering  feet  of  millions  hither  tend : 
Oh,  may  the  blight  of  faction,  and  the  curse 
Of  dark  cabal,  be  spared  thy  generous  breast! 
Thou  art  the  hope  of  Freedom,  and  the  dread 
Of  Tyranny.     Within  thy  bosom  lies 
A  nursling  giant,  slumbering  now,  who  thence 
Shall  draw  the  strength  which  fabling  bards  of  old 
Bestowed  on  world-sustaining  Atlas.     Grant, 
Oh,  Thou  who  mak'st  the  courses  of  the  stars, 
And  art  no  less  the  guide  and  guard  of  man, 
That  when  this  germ  of  mightiest  power  shall  reach 
Its  certain  and  its  due  development. 
It  shall  not  smite,  wdth  matricidal  hand. 
The  bosom  that  hath  nourished  it ;   but  give 
Its  majesty  of  strength,  its  cumulate 
Of  wisdom,  its  capacity  for  good, 
To  Man,  to  Truth,  to  Freedom,  and  to  God  ! 

Time  writes  upon  the  earth,  in  many  ways, 
Wise  admonition,  that  man's  eagle  eye, 
Bent  on  the  stars  in  cold  ambition's  heaven, 
Stoops  not  to  read./  The  far-away,  the  dim, 


62  Miami  Woods. 

The  difficult,  who  sees  not?     Tis  the  pUiin, 

"Whose  lessons  lie  along  our  (hiily  paths, 

That  none  iK'hokl,  or  coniprelicnd.     And  yet, 

The  palpable  is  elotiuent.     There  lies 

A  eolunui,  where  a  Grecian  temple  stoixl: 

There  stands  a  crumbling  wall  where  Roman  might 

Built  up  its  proudest  structure: — B<»th  relate 

The  selt-samc  story  of  aggressive  power, 

Of  wild  ambition  for  extended  rule, 

And  of  iutestiue  strifes  that  live  on  blood, 

And  die  in  desolation.     Far  away 

From  these  dark  relics  and  theii*  Icsstm — far, 

Where  the  adventurous  Genoese  descried 

Another  worhl,  and  gave  it  to  the  Iree, 

There  hangs  a  picture  of  gigantic  size 

And  wonderful  design.     Although,  as  yet. 

In  any  part  unfmished,  and  in  some 

Almost  untouched,  it  still  displays  in  all 

A  towering  genius,  and  a  master  hand. 

It  shi>ws  a  nearly  limitless  expanse 

Of  hill  and  vale,  of  mountain  and  of  plain. 

Wide-spreading  forests  strike  the  wiUKrcd  eye. 

At  first,  of  gorgeous  foliage,  varied  hue. 

And  most  majestic  height.     Savannas  green 

Between  the  mountain  ranges  stretch  away, 

Till  ill  the  endless  wood  they  lose  themselves, 

Or  mingle  with  the  sky,  and  of  its  blue 


Part  Fowih— 1852.  63 

Become  an  imdistinguisbable  part. 

Down  the  deep  gorges  of  the  mountain  sides 

Careering  torrents  tumble.     Runnels  leap 

In  cataracts  white  -as  wool  from  rock  to  rock, 

And  plunge  in  dark  abysses.     O'er  the  plains 

Gigantic  rivers  hold  their  solemn  way, 

Now  disappearing  in  the  Avilderness, 

Now  flashing  back  the  light  of  sun  and  stars. 

Far  in  the  background  of  this  wondrous  scene, 

Where  matchless  Power  has  stooped  and  hollowed  out 

Stupendous  basins  in  the  eternal  rock, 

Vast  lakes  repose  in  majesty,  that  have 

No  parallels  on  earth.     Minuter  view, 

Scanning  the  picture  close  in  all  its  parts, 

Discloses  habitations  on  the  sloj^es 

Of  gentle  hills,  and  sunny  intervales 

Covered  with  grain,  and  orchards  bending  low 

AYith  rich  and  ripening  fruits,  and  grassy  fields 

Where  the  cow  fills  her  udder,  and  the  lamb 

Crops  undisturbed.     And  other  scrutiny 

Reveals  the  prosperous  city  here  and  there, 

Wherein  are  practiced  the  fair  arts  of  peace, 

And  virtue  brings  its  crowning  joy,  content. 

The  prostrate  column,  and  the  crumbling  wall, 

That  tell  of  desolation,  are  not  here. 

No  footprints  of  the  Past  reveal  themselves 

O'er  all  this  wide  domain,  save  in  the  wrecks 


^ 


64  Miami    Woods. 

Of  an  extinrruishcd  race  that  lie  around — 

Tlie  ton»l),  the  altar  and  the  citadel, 

Which  Time  in  his  long  laj)se  ha.<  rolwd  in  green 

Softer  tlian  vilvet,  making  Inautifid 

Not  only  what  were  desolation  else, 

But  the  wide  prospect  round.     The  pillar'd  pride 

Of  lofty  groves,  the  dark  luxuriant  growth 

Of  virgin  plains,  and  the  resistless  sweep 

Of  rivers  on  whose  marge  the  bison-herd 

And  antlered  elk  feed  quietly,  proclaim, 

That  for  the  footdej)S  of  tlie  Future,  here 

Lie  tJie  appointed  trays.     Aliove  the  lone 

And  prostrate  column,  Memory  may  weep. 

And  by  the  crumbling  wall:   but  joyous  IIoj>c 

Comes  with  high  courage  and  clastic  lind), 

And  to  oach  mountain  of  tliis  marvelous  scene, 

And  to  iiu-h  valKy,  points  and  leads  the  way. 

Ah  !   Hope  is  strong  to  natiims — strong  to  mc: 
But  the  bright  ray  that  broke  ui><m  my  path 
When  last  1  wandered  in  these  silent  shades. 
Soon  blackened  like  the  night  aroinid  n»y  heart  : 
For  darkness  dreader  than  its  fu'st  e«-lipse 
O'erwhelmed  again  that  young  and  struguding  mind, 
Which  here  had  opened  first  to  glcanis  of  Truth, 
Anil  brightened  to  the  IJeautiful  around. 


Part  Fourth— 1852.  65 

Miami  Woods !  from  tlicse  sequestered  haunts 
For  many  a  long  and  weary  month,  till  now, 
Again  I  've  been  an  exile,  sick  at  heart, 
And  brooding  o'er  the  sorrow  of  my  life — 
A  sorrow  that  has  been  baptized  in  tears 
So  often,  it  is  holier  grown  than  love, 
Or  hope,  or  memories  that  perish  not. 

Again  I  stand  by  the  remembered  shrines 
At  which  she  earliest  worship'd  God  with  me. 
How  strongly  seems  her  youthful  impress  fixed 
On  every  thing  around !     E'en  now  my  soul 
Is  busy  with  a  faint  and  simple  chime, 
To  which  the  waving  leaf  and  murmuring  breeze 
Bear  sweet  accompaniment,  in  full  accord. 

1. 

Cool  summer  woods  !     I  walk  not  now  alone : 
The  form  of  her  whose  darkness  makes  my  woe, 
Childlike  as  when  she  last  was  with  me  here, 
Gleams  brightly  on  me  from  the  undergrowth, 
And  glides  anear  me  in  the  deepening  shade, 

As  if  she  were  not  ftxr,  ah !  far  away. 
G 


GG  Miami    Woo(b. 


2. 

Dim  fun  St  walks  I     Timt  younsr  and  radiaut  face 
Looks  nut  rniin  rvi-ry  silent  l)iisli  aroiiinl. — 
And  that  jrlad  voifc,  wliich  rang  so  olton  lu-re, 
IJreaks  ever  and  anon  from  flowery  nooks 
And  suuuy  kuuils  that  were  lier  chief  delight, 

As  if  she  were  uut  iiir,  ah  I  far  away. 

3. 

Sweet,  eahn  retreats!     From  old  familiar  paths, 
From  t"avorit<'  seats  JK-side  the  I(al)l)ling  spring, 
From  leafy  coverts  close  along  my  way, 
I  see  her  start  in  many  a  graceful  hound, 
With  wildwood  garlamls  hright  u|»on  Jut  hrows. 

As  if  she  Were  not  far,  ah  !   far  awav. 

Sad,  southing  chimi — it  lingers  on  the  air 
In  sweet  reverherations,  like  the  sounds 
Of  far-otf  lulls,  that  in  the  hush  of  night 
C'east*  not,  hut  pass  into  our  dreams ;  and  now, 
The  waving  leaf  and  murmuring  hree/e  prolong 
Its  closing  cadeiic»>,  till  the  <Teeping  Itrook, 
Tiie  tinkling  water-fall,  the  <lrowsy  eve, 
lu'peat  the  burden,  echoing  to  my  heart 
In  plaintive  measures,  "  Far,  ah  I   far  awav  I  " 


Part  Fifth— lSb2.  67 

1852. 

Calm,  still  retreats,  I  visit  you  again : 
Now  with  a  face  of  gladness,  and  a  heart 
None  the  less  swelling  with  its  gratitude 
Because  despair  was  never  quite  despair. 
God  has  been  merciful !  Where  darkness  dwelt 
The  light  has  come  again,  and  with  its  rays 
The  phantoms  of  the  mind  have  vanished.     Hush 
Even  the  whispering  zephyrs,  while  I  kneel 
And  breathe  my  invocation !     .     .     .     Come  to  me, 
Ye  birds  that  go  not  when  the  summer  goes  : 
Pause  in  your  winding  way,  ye  murmuring  streams : 
Gather  about  me,  ye  soft  autumn  airs 
That  linger  in  the  woodlands  yet,  and  play 
Above  the  sunny  meadows  :  still  look  up, 
Pale,  perishing  blossoms,  from  your  dusky  couch 
Of  fallen  leaves  :  lean  forward  now,  ye  rocks, 
And  trees,  and  hills,  that  your  dull  ears  may  catch 
The  faintest  accent  of  ray  trembling  voice. 
While  fervently  I  thank  the  God  of  all 
For  this  last  mercy  to  me  !     .     .     .     Fatlicr  !  Tliou 
Hast  taken  from  my  heart  its  weight  of  woe; 
Hast  rent  the  veil  that  shut  the  light  of  hope 


r>8  Miami    l^*»o^•. 

Ldii;^  from  my  spirit;   hast  liftotl  uj)  the  lilack 

Ami  tt'rrihlc  pall  that  lay  upon  my  .eniil — 

'riaii^fiiniiing  it  to  white  ainl  shiiiiiiLr  i-uIh-s, 

For  the  fair  form  lon;j  hidden  fn»m  my  view, 

And  jLriveu  the  dear  one  hack  into  my  arms 

Thus  j)anoplied  in  Li^dit.     Thanks,  thanks,  oh  (Jud! 

Ad(jrablc — .Supreme — Eternal  One ! 

Ah  !   not  all  aii.-uciiiii:  Iniu-  Imiii  all  the  ltovi-s  I 
!My  joyous  luart,  that  craves  the  sympathy 
Of  whatsoe'er  is  nearest,  heats  alone. 
The  flowers  that  were  the  L'lory  of  the  sprinir, 
The  sin^riuj;  hirds  that  made  the  summer  L'lad, 
And  the  ;:reen  leaves  that  throutrh  the  e]ianj,'inj,'  months 
Danced  in  tlie  sun  and  whisjR-red  to  the  breeze, 
All,  all  have  pass'd  away.     The  weary  irales 
("oiiic  si.,diinir  from  the  meadows  up  the  sIojm^, 
And  die  in  jilaintivc  murmui>:    in  the  elm 
Tlic  jav  screams  hoarsclv,  and   the  sijuirnl  harks 
Wii(  Tc  the  old  oak  stands  naked:   from  the  haves, 
That  rustle  to  my  tread,  an  odor  comes 
As  of  mortality.      It  is  the  sad, 
Sweet  prriod  of  the  vcar  our  caltMuls  call 
Tiic  "Indian  Siniiiiiir.  "     IV-autifully  pass 
The  seasons  into  this.     The  harvest  ilonc, 
The  summer  days  round  slowly  with  a  hush 
Into  the  (juiet  of  tin'  .\u;,'Ust  noons. 


Fart  Fifth— 1852.  69 

Fields  then  lie  bare  ;  the  skies  grow  milky-blue; 
The  streams  run  lazily ;  the  tiniest  child 
Can  jump  the  brooks,  or  wade  them  dry  at  knee ; 
One  far  retired  in  this  wide  Wood,  can  hear 
Its  deep  heart  throb,  so  still  is  every  thing : 
Out  o'er  the  meadows,  where  from  earliest  morn 
Tlie  grazing  herds  have  fed,  they  quit  the  dry, 
Hot  grasses,  and  seek  out  the  shadiest  pools, 
Where,  plunging  belly-deep,  they  thus  await 
The  cooler  eve's  approach  so  quietly, 
They  look  like  statues  from  red  granite  hewn, 
Or  cast  in  bronze,  or  cut  in  ivory  ; 
The  restless  sheep  are  scattered,  each  with  nose 
Thrust  in  protecting  grasses;  by  the  bars, 
Beneath  the  walnut  shade,  the  horses  dose 
The  mid-day  hours  away ;  around  the  fields. 
The  groves  are  silent ;  dotting  here  and  there 
The  faded  landscape,  like  gray  clouds  at  rest. 
The  old  farm-houses  lie ;  the  lolling  dog, 
That  ever  claims  the  shadow  of  the  porch. 
Frets  the  hot  noon  through ;  all  is  still  beside. 

The  quivering  flame  of  August  noons,  at  length, 
Burns  out;  and  with  September's  equinox 
The  eartli  grows  cooler,  and  the  quicken'd  airs 
j\Iore  freshly  touch  the  cheek:   but  summer's  breath 
Yet  lingers,  till  the  still  October  comes 


Mil  tin  I     I(ow/.<. 

Witli  frosty  nip^lits,  and  slumhorous,  sunny  davs: 

Then  falls  the  leaf;  tin  ii  fades  alun;^  the  fence 

The  gulden-r(Kl ;  then  turns  the  aster  pale; 

Tlitn  fly  the  soni^-hirds,  liy  tin-  rnhin  led. 

Whose  vnircs  thrnuirh  the  summer  months  have  llU'd 

The  Woods  with  juusic,  far  to  southern  haunis. 

In  oraiiLTt'  tliickets  hy  Suwanee's  shore, 

And  Mississippi's  hroail  magnolia  groves. 

Another  haze  now  overspreads  the  sky, 
Tiiat  thickens  into  dark  Xovemher  clouds; 
And  soon,  from  wherr  tlu-  stormy  Satrinaw 
Lets  loose  the  northern  blasts,  eome  driving  down 
Fierce  wintry  winds  o'er  wide  and  fro/.en  plains, 
Till  drizzly  days  hring  snowy  nights,  and  all 
Is  desolate. — But  vainly  yet  the  light 
And  feathery  flaki-s  «lcseend  on  earth,  and  eling 
l'jM)n  the  trees;   for  of"ten  still  come  warm 
And  sunny  noons,  which  lift  the  thin  white  shroud 
l''rom  lindjs  it  |)n'matunlv  wraps,  and  lav 
The  folded  lini-n  hack  from  Nature's!  face. 
— Again  the  sunshine  lightiiis  up  the  vales. 
Aiul  sli'cps  upon  the  hillsides:   ln-av'n  looks  love — 
.\nil  earlli  looks  gnititude — and  all  the  air 
I'^inks  to  a  holy  calm,  like  that  whi«'h  t'lunes 
Uj>on  cathedr.d  ai>lcs  wln-n  (he  last  chant 
Of  voices,  and  tin-  organ's  closing  peals, 


rart  Fifth— ISryL  71 

Die  lingeringly  away.     Auotlier  chauge 
Xow  follows  silently  ;  and  from  the  broad 
And  grassy  plains,  and  from  the  fallen  leaves 
That  strew  the  forest-walks,  and  from  tlie  hills 
And  from  the  streams,  like  incense  rises  np 
A  gentle,  all-pervading,  softening  haze, 
As  qniet  and  as  soothing  as  the  prayer 
Last  breathed  in  life  from  holiest  Christian  lips. 

A  sweet,  voluptuous  languor,  fills  the  air: 
The  sun  is  shorn  of  his  bright  beams,  and  looks 
Redly  and  dimly  down  upon  the  earth  : 
The  moon  glows  like  a  buckler,  as  she  mounts 
In  quiet  from  the  misty  depths,  which  now 
No  marked  horizon  separates  from  the  dome 
That  spreads  above  :  the  starry  hosts  are  lost, 
All  but  the  larger  lights,  Avhich  dimly  walk 
The  heavens  alone.     The  breezes  of  the  night 
Catch  the  last  lingering  sweets  of  autumn-time. 
And  with  them  bring  the  murmurs  of  the  brooks 
To  lull  the  senses  to  repose.     The  warm 
And  wanton  airs  that  through  the  slumberous  day 
Steal  gently  up  from  southern  climes,  caress 
The  willing  cheek,  and  told  the  languid  frame 
In  long  embraces,  and  on  couches  spread 
In  sunny  spots  of  silence,  thickly  strewn 


Witli  sweetest  *=iuelling  leaves,  lit-  down  with  it 
In  [tantinij  cc-itasies  uf  s(»Ct  tUliirlits.    " 

Xiiw  all  tile  WDdilhuiiIs  iiiunil.  ami  tlii>c  fair  vales, 
Ami  the  l»riia<l  plains  that  from  tlnir  liunlcrs  stretch 
Away  to  the  hliie  Unica.  and  run 
Aloiii;  the  Ozjirk  nuiL'e,  and  far  hoyond 
I'ind  the  still  j^roves  that  shut  Itasia  in. 
But,  more  than  all,  these  old  Miami  Woods, 
Are  rohed  in  ixoldcn  exhalations,  dim 
As  halt-reiiHiiilurcd  dreams,  and  iMautiful 
As  au^dit  ol'  N'alaiiilirosa,  or  thr  plains 
OfAnadv,  liy  lalilinL'  poets  sun^. 
The  niirht  is  lill'd  with  murmurs,  and  the  day 
Distils  a  suhtle  atmosphere,  that  lulls 
The  senses  to  a  halt"  re|)')se.  and  han<;d 
A  rosy  twilii.'ht  over  nature,  like 
The  ni;,dit  of  Norway  summers,  when  the  sun 
Skims  the  horizon  throujjh  the  tedious  months. 

]S'ow  airs  as  warm  aii<l  sWcet  a-  tho>e  tlial  kiss 
The  blossoms  of  the  ;_'roves  in  I'Morida, 
Steal  sol'tly  whis|H'rini;  throuj^h  the  woods,  and  erimp 
The  sleepinj;  streams.      New  leases  of  new  life 
Seem  ^'iven  to  him  whose  evanescent  years 
Are  roinidini;  to  a  lon^'  re|>os»«.      1 1  is  coueh 
Is  near  the  window  wheehd,  lii>  wiarv  head 


Part  Fifth— lSr)2.  73 

Is  bolstered  up,  that  he  may  thus  look  out 

Upon  the  hazy  landscape,  and  inhale 

The  grateful  air.     Anon  he  feels  his  heart 

Thrill  with  a  subtle  influence,  that  lifts 

His  thoughts  above  the  world ;  and  then  his  brain 

Throbs  with  delight  a  moment,  when  he  sinks 

Silently  back  in  beatific  dreams, 

That  give  his  soul  a  foretaste  of  the  bliss 

It  soon  shall  know  in  heaven.     While  over  him 

Whose  life  is  in  the  vigor  still  of  youth, 

Comes  a  sweet  languor,  touching  first  his  limbs, 

Then  creeping  stealthily  along  each  vein, 

And  spreading  till  he  yields  himself  at  will 

To  the  delicious  sense  of  life  alone. 

Such  is  the  "Indian  Summer," — named  by  those 
Who  hither  came  while  yet  the  Redman  held 
Dominion  here.     No  fabling  pen  portrays 
This  season's  sweet,  luxurious,  transient  sway. 
Not  man  alone,  though  he  in  chief,  enjoys 
Its  brief  career:  the  summer-working  bee, 
Voluptuous  in  his  tastes,  is  tempted  forth, 
And  forages  with  skill ;  across  my  path 
The  hoarding  squirrel  springs  with  fresh-got  spoil; 
The  winter  birds  discard  tlie  sumach  seed, 
And  dry  wild-grapes,  and  haunt  the  sunny  nooks 
7 


Tluit  imc  tiu'  wi'iiii  :iiiil  iiiMit  out,  for  f<KKl 
OtMaiiiticr  .-nit.      All  luituro  sceins  to  feel, 
ThroUL'h(»ut  In  r  rnmif,  llu- ;,'iiii:il  iiillufiu-i- ; 
AikI  wix.ils  :ui<l  strfiinis,  and  hills  and  valK-vs,  l<x»k 
I'mises  to  Ciod,  the  Infinite,  the  (JiMtd. 

^^IA^II  WtioDsI  (lay  after  day.  for  near 
A  fortuiglit  now,  I've  eonio  nt  early  niorii 
And  loitered  till  the  eve,  from  point  to  |»oint 
Threading  the  forest  nuizes  many  a  mile  ; 
Now  sitting,  like  the  soul  of  Solitude, 
On  a  hrown  hill-si«le  Imeked  hy  nakeil  elms, 
(la/.ing  into  tin-  waters  of  the  stream 
That  kissed  its  base,  of  niany  shadows  full, 
As  if  they  were  futurity;  aimn. 
Hanging  alM)ve  the  vestiges  t)f  life 
In  the  world's  infancy,  that  strew  the  plains. 
An<l  dot  the  slopes,  an<l  crown  the  highest  hills; 
Thru  lingering  amid  the  stntely  groves 
That  ginlle  in  the  lnuad  white  Ileitis  of  corn. 
Whose  golden  ears  yet  hang  within  the  hu.-k  ; 
Then  passing  with  tlu-  farmer's  childnii  up 
From  underneatii  tlu-  U'ech  and  hackdnTry  trees. 
Partaking  freely  s«M>n  of  wholesome  fare. 
And  cheating  tlu-  long  eviiiini:  in  di^-ourst^ 
Of  I5<Mmeand  Kenton  and  th«-  riMH..  is, 
Oi'  I'ontiac  an«l  ICllenipsico, 


rart  Fifth— 1852.  75 

Of  Logan,  the  heart-broken  chief,  of  bold 

Tecuniseh  and  the  Prophet,  Raisin's  red 

And  terrible  massacre,  and  Erie's  great 

And  glorious  victory — then  all  to  bed  : 

Next  morn,  with  only  thanks  given  and  received 

For  all  this  hospitality,  away 

Into  the  rustling  forest-paths  again, 

Deep-lost  in  admiration  at  the  brave 

Resistance  which  the  Redmen  here  had  made 

To  the  encroaching  tides  that  drove  them  back 

Farther  and  farther  in  the  wilderness, 

And  kindred  admiration  of  the  bold. 

Resistless  progress  of  the  Pioneers, 

Whose  spirit  hardest  toil  could  not  subdue, 

Whom  dangers  daunted  not,  nor  death  apjiall'd. 

The  "Indian  Summer"  thus  hath  pass'd  away — ■ 
The  soft,  luxurious  days  of  indolence, 
Voluptuous  and  wildering  as  a  dream 
Of  Ilafiz  in  the  Persian  citron  groves, 
Fanu'd  l)y  the  spicy  zephyrs  of  the  East, 
And  sung  to  slumber  by  the  Bulbul  rocked 
In  sweetest  folds  of  the  imperial  rose. 
— Now,  from  the  stormy  Huron's  broad  exj)ause. 
From  Mackinaw  and  from  the  Michigan, 
Whose  billows  beat  upon  the  sounding  shores 
And  lash  the  surging  pines,  come  sweeping  down 


70 


Miami    Wixnh. 


loo-makinii  blast.*,  ami  niirlri!^  sheet?  of  snow: 
The  heavens  jrr(»w  darker  daily;   bleakest  winds 
Shriek  through  the  naked  woods;   the  rohher  owl 
Hoots  from  his  roekinir  eitadel  all  night ; 
And  all  the  day  unhoust'd  eattle  stand 
Shivering  and  pineh'd.     By  many  a  potent  sign 
The  dark  and  dreary  day?  of  Winter  thus 
Inaugurate  tliiir  king.     A  summer  bird, 
I  tly  before  LLs  breath. — Loved  haunts,  larewell! 


X^- 


>^ 


Part  Sidh—185S. 


Dart  Sipth. 

1SS3. 


A  YEAR  ago — a  little  year  ago — 
How  long  I  lingered  in  these  quiet  haunts ! 
The  earth  was  ne'er  more  beautiful  than  then, 
Day  darkened  into  night  so  peacefully, 
And  night  so  freshly  brightened  into  day : 
But  storm  and  darkness  pass'd  upon  the  scene, 
And  swept  it  like  a  scourge.     A  year  ago, 
A  little  year  ago,  the  stricken  one 
From  scattering  shadows  look'd  out  on  that  earth, 
And  brightened  in  its'  beauty.     Her  young  heart 
And  mine  took  lesson  of  the  night  and  day, 
And  pass'd  like  them  each  into  either's  depths : 
But  storm  and  darkness  visit  not  the  earth 
Alone,  to  desolate  and  to  destroy ; 
They  fall  upon  the  human  heart  as  Avell, 
And  sweep  it  also  like  a  deadly  scourge. 

1. 
I  had  a  little  sprite  whose  name  was  Hope — 
It  sang  glad  songs  into  my  eager  ear ; 


78  Miami    HW/j<. 

But  wlion  most  loved  its  notes  died  all  away, 
And  now  its  son<rs  are  still'd  iureveriuore — 
Furcverraore. 

2 

I  licard  a  vuicc.  iMini  ufiny  human  love, 
Speak  to  my  human  weakness  words  of  joy  ; 
Kaeh  was  as  swet-t  as  sounds  of  dulcimers, 
IJut  all  are  silent  now  forevermore — 
Fonvtriuore. 


1  held  witiiin  n)y  own  a  little  hand, 
White  JUS  the  moon,  and  it  iKH'ame  as  c il-l  ; 
I  pressed  it  to  my  lips  in  atrony; 
T  was  then  withdrawn — withdrawn  fonvermore 
l\>revermori'. 


I've  Worn  a  f'adt'd  lilv  on  inv  hreast 
These  nuiny  days,  thesi-  nuiny  w»"ary  days; 
Hut  now,  hy  unseen  finijoi-s  toueh'd,  it  fall.- 
h  fulls  away,  and  falls  forevermore — 


Part  Sixth— ISo^.  79 


5. 
I  held  a  beautiful  and  precious  gem 
Against  my  beating  heart,  for  many  a  year ; 
But  while  most  cherished  it  hath  turn'd  to  dust, 
And  here  I  lay  it  down  forevermore — 
Forevermore. 

Oh,  many  are  the  sweet  and  gentle  flow^ers, 
Caught  by  untimely  frosts,  that  droop  and  die 
Ere  half  their  beauty  has  disclosed  itself : 
The  dews  of  evening  and  the  stars  of  night 
"Watch  o'er  and  weep  for  them,  and  kindly  airs 
Bear  them  to  earth,  and  lay  them  in  repose. 
And  many  are  the  pure  and  gentle  hearts. 
Untimely  touched  by  Death,  that  render  up 
The  hopes  and  promises  of  opening  life 
Without  a  murmur,  and  go  calmly  down, 
Along  the  way  of  shadows,  to  the  grave. 
And  such  an  one  has  just  been  laid  to  rest, 
Here,  where  the  hectic  leaf  of  autumn  falls 
And  strews  the  fresh-heap'd  earth,  and  wliere  the  pale 
And  i)erishing  blossoms  of  the  year  lie  low. 

1. 
Birds  of  the  greenwood  groves,  and  sunny  meads ! 
Whose  voices  ever  fill'd  her  with  dclie;ht, 


80  Mlumi    H'rwk 

Come  from  tlio  niirri)r  of  tho  jrlji.>J>y  jxk)I, 
(\»nie  from  the  tlufket'.s  iMlge  wlu-re  IktHcs  \iiuv. 
('«»iiic  from  each  airy  porcli  and  favorite  haunt. 
Ami  fiMin  your  swett  an<l  i'Ver-j)Iaintive  tliroatj* 
I'our  forth,  iu  s'ift  ami  lui'laiu-holy  <tavrs, 
A  (liriro  ahove  the  IovimI  and  carlv  lo>t  ! 


AVinds  of  the  sprinj^-tiiue  I  ye  that  hear  the  sounds 
Of  far-on'nuirniurs  on  your  dewy  winjrs. 
And  steal  a  cailenee  from  the  runuini;  hrook, 
Tiiat  rol>  llio  insect  of  its  luini,  and  catch 
The  harp's  last  note,  still  trembling  on  the  strinjrs, 
Pause  here  a  little  while,  above  this  jrrave. 
And  in  tlie  tenderest  tones  of  all,  breathe  out 
A  rctjuiciii  fur  llic  lovitl  and  early  lost. 

3. 

Jiij^lit  hnczcs  of  the  suninu'r  I  wanderintr  far, 
Combine  in  one  tlie  many  snuiuls  of  ;.'rief 
Ye  puller  in  vour  loii^  and  lomly  wa\  . 
And  Wed  with  tliem  all  sounds  of  earth  and  air 
Too  surrowftd  fur  other  company, 
And  murmur  them  at  nmrn  and  eventi<le, 
Am<1  in  tlie  hu<h  of  noun,  alMtve  the  s|>ot 
AVhere  >leeps  in  death  the  loVed  ami  early  lo«;t  ! 


Fart  Sixth— 1853.  81 


4. 

Soft,  sighing  gales  of  autiimu  !  from  the  brown 
And  melancholy  meadows,  from  the  gloom 
Of  rocky  caverns,  from  the  plaining  woods, 
That  mourn  the  hectic  leaf  and  fading  flower, 
From  deepest  hollows  and  from  highest  hills. 
Bring  all  the  soft,  sweet  voices  that  are  born, 
And  pour  the  saddest  plaint  that  ever  yet 
Wa.s  uttered  for  the  loved  and  early  lost ! 


"^ 


V"*^ 


82  Miami   Woods. 


1856. 


-Miami  W  0(->T)<  !  once  m.irc,  in  pilL'riiii  L'lii.-i^ 
I  seek  your  venerable  sliades.     Mv  heart 
In  swelliu",'  with  a  thousand  nu'ini>ries 
Of  her  wild,  in  her  youthful  heauty,  roamed 
The  cliild  of  Nature  lure.     The  lapsinjj  years 
Caiiic  with  their  seasons  re(lolciit  of  Moom, 
AhotiMilinL'  fruit fuliu'ss.  and  irarnered  wi-alth: 
Chanees  and  chanires  left  their  iinpre.^.^^  here, 
On  many  a  scene  :    the  plory  of  the  wimmLs 
Faded  and  fell  where  niit:ratorv  iiian 
Spied  out  the  land,  and  ehose  his  new  alunle  : 
The  (jiiiet  of  the  sylvan  Solitude 
AVas  broken  by  unusual  sounds,  that  woke 
New  eeho«'s  in  its  depths,  as  throu<,rh  thern  rusli'd, 
AVilh  arrowy  speed,  eanvring  I'ower,  that  dnigirM 
The  iVeiirhted  ear,  aloni:  whose  nn>:hty  track 
Tile  niouari'h.s  of  the  forest  disappeand  : 
^^'he^c  the  rude  caltiu  of  the  pioneer 
Lay  like  a  slnulow  on  the  jrrassy  plain, 
Or  on  the  wt>oded  sIo|x>,  when  first  her  fi'et 
Wandered  in  prattling  iufuuey  uloug 


PaH  Seventh— 185Q.  83 

Meandering  rivulet  and  bounding  brook, 
The  trellised  cottage  with  its  crown  of  flowers 
Appeared,  and  statelier  mansions  rose  anon  : 
The  hand  of  civilization  toucli'd  each  scene. 
And  changed  it :   even  our  last  retreats  were  not 
Exempt,  but  into  far  secluded  haunts, 
Whose  natural  beauty  art  could  only  mar. 
The  axe,  the  compass,  and  the  chain  were  borne, 
Dividing  and  despoiling  :  onward  came 
The  multitudes  who  people  now  these  plains 
And  hills,  not  as  a  calm-careering  stream, 
But  like  a  rushing  torrent : — Still,  the  love 
Of  Nature,  in  her  quiet,  far  retreats, 
Oft  brought  us  to  these  old  majestic  groves, 
That  even  avarice  hath  not  yet  laid  Ioav. 

In  this  our  long  companionship  with  woods, 
And  waters,  and  the  star-like  flowers  that  line 
Each  rustling  path,  and  the  bright,  winged  tribes, 
That  give  the  incorporeal  air  a  voice. 
And  all  but  an  embodiment,  she  became, 
To  me,  a  part  of  every  sight  and  sound 
Throughout  this  wide  domain.     And  on  each  breeze 
That  steals  up  softly  from  yon  babbling  brook, 
Her  joyous  tones  come  floating  to  me  now ; 
And  turn  where'er  I  will  I  see  her  form. 
For  every  mossy  nook  and  flowery  slope 


84  Miami    Womls. 

Is  livin;,'  with  licr  image.     Here,  where  time 
Ila.s  .spared  ii  leafy  euvcrt  of  olil  day?, 
Wc  .sut  when  la.st  she  visited  these  scenes. 
The  shadnw  of  a  mighty  sorrow  still 
llestnl  upon  her  soul ;  hut  day  hy  tlay 
Ixcturniug  light  was  lifting  up  the  veil ; 
Ami  in  among  these  old  familiar  haunts 
I  saw  the  struggle  memory  made  with  douht, 
And  viewed  the  gradual  triuniph.     .S)on  we  left, 
Fur  other  scenes  that  lay  in  sweet  rei>)se, 
And  golden  beauty,  where  the  winter's  reign 
Is  mild,  ami  shortcneil  hy  a  kiu<irur  clime. 

Once  more  in  heauty  came  the  blessed  spring, 
And  garlanded  the  earth.     AVe  were  away, 
Mid  l)iid.<  and  l)lossonis  of  the  sweet  iSouth-Wcst, 
Seeking  to  strengthen  still  the  nestling  hoiH> 
That  Ciod  again  had  sent  us.     From  her  brow- 
Faded  the  darkness  of  its  late  eclipse; 
Ami  witli  the  gentle,  spicy  airs,  that  oft 
Stole  up  from  the  i'ar  (tulf  of  Me.\ico, 
IJearing  the  swj-ets  of  riflc»l  orange  groves 
And  jasmine  thickets,  she  drank  in  what  .'ieeme«l 
To  be  a  new  and  rarer  life,  and  grew 
Strunirer  ami  stronger,  till  her  heart  again 
Yearned  for  the  gloom  of  wo(h1s,  the  glance  of  waves, 
The  arrowy  gleauj  of  wings  among  the  trees. 


Pali  Seventh— 185(}.  *  85 

And  the  glad  songs  of  birds.     And  hence  we  went 
Out  where  the  groves  had  a  familiar  look, 
When  she  roused  up  as  from  a  dream,  and  shook 
With  passionate  joy.     She  held  but  slight  discourse 
Herself,  as  yet,  but  gave  a  willing  ear, 
And  more  than  pleased  assent,  to  converse  framed 
Of  Nature,  and  the  visible  Universe, 
Of  Faith,  and  Hope,  and  Love, — and  at  the  name 
Of  God,  or  Christ,  would  humbly  bow  her  head. 
To  singing  birds  and  blooming  flowers  she  gave 
Quick  recognition,  and  her  lips  would  part, 
And  her  cheeks  flush,  when  memories  awoke 
That  long  had  slumbered.     She  would  fondly  pause 
Where  ri2:)pling  waters  made  a  soothing  sound. 
And  where  in  crystal  pools  the  bright  blue  heaven 
Was  mirrored,  and  the  fleck  of  passing  clouds. 

But  hope  is  vain — and  human  strength  is  vain — 
And  tears  and  agony  and  love  and  life. 
All,  all  are  vain.     As  transient  as  the  sjn-ing 
Were  the  fair  promises  that  bade  our  hearts 
Rejoice.     The  jewel  still  retain'd  its  light, 
But  the  enshrining  casket  had  been  rent, 
And  might  not  be  made  whole  again.     She  knew, 
Ere  yet  suspicion  had  aroused  our  fears, 
That  Death  with  ruthless  hand  was  cutting  loose 
The  cords  of  life.     Yet  still  through  meadowy  fields, 


86  '  ^^u^mi   IJ'ooJj}. 

That  stretched  in  qniet  l)eauty  to  the  shade 

Of"  neighboring  groves,  whose  eahn  retreats  she  loved, 

"NVc  l)ore  her  often.     But  her  feeble  frame 

Grew  feebler  as  the  passing  spring  went  In* 

With  its  eool  airs  ;  and  when  the  summer  <:imf, 

She  fadid  like  a  flower  bi-fon'  its  breath  ; 

And  t  re  the  first  of  autumn  moons  grew  round, 

8hc  told  us,  as  the  sad  and  weary  winds 

Came  sigliing  up  the  sloiK",  that  she  should  die. 

We  bade  her  hoi)e :  she  looked  up  at  tlie  heavens, 

To  tell  us  that  her  only  hope  was  there. 

We  told  her  (Jod  was  mereiful,  and  good. 

And  just,  and  that  he  would  not  call  her  hence, 

So  young,  .so  beautiful,  so  lovetl  of  all. 

A  momentary  shade  across  her  face 

Pass'd  like  an  agony,  and  di.>iapjx*ared. 

Then  with  a  light  upon  her  countenance 

That  awed  us  into  sik-nce,  it  became 

So  like  a  halo,  .she  with  steady  hand 

l)rew  in  clear  lines  the  far-off  gnis.>jy  sloj>o 

Where  she  would  lie,  U'side  the  younger  three 

Who  pa.>is'd  to  death  in-fore  her — traci-d  a  slab, 

AVhereon  she  wrote  her  name,  and  thes<'  few  words, 

"She  sleeps  in  peace,"     then  with  prophetic  ken 

Inscribed  the  year  below,     lire  many  days, 

Though  .-Jorrow  came  and  dimmM  again  her  brow. 

Without  u  tear  she  i)ress'J  our  swelling  heartii 


Part  Seventh— 1S5Q.  87 

To  hers,  and  on  the  ashen  Hps  of  each 
Printed  her  fai'ewell  kiss — then  gave  her  thoughts 
To  God,  who  had  her  heart  and  all  her  hopes, 
Breathing  her  life  away  without  a  moan, 
Or  audible  sigh,  and  sank  to  sleep  in  death. 

"SVc  bore  her  body  to  the  grave  she  wish'd, 
And  laid  it  with  her  kindred.     Earth  contains, 
In  her  enfolding  bosom,  few  more  bright. 
More  beautiful,  more  loved:  and  fewer  still, 
Who,  taken  in  the  blossom  of  their  years, 
So  willingly,  so  trustingly,  went  down 
To  the  dark  chambers  of  the  silent  tomb. 

Sorrow  is  of  the  Earth,  and  joy  of  Heaven. 
The  dust  of  what  she  was,  is  here — the  soul, 
That  clothed  it  with  a  glory  from  above, 
Roams  now  untrammel'd  through  eternal  space. 
Singing  with  angels  round  the  Throne  of  God, 
And  in  the  fountains  of  perpetual  peace 
Bathing  its  shining  plumes.     Such  is  our  faith — • 
And  yet  we  mourn  for  her,  and  can  but  mourn. 
She  walked  the  shadowy  shores  of  death  so  long, 
And  struggled  through  their  gloom  so  patiently, 
Only  to  close  her  little  dream  of  life, 
And  lay  the  casket  of  her  soul  aside. 
When  the  thick  mists  were  rising,  and  the  world 
Spread  out  Ijcueath  them,  bright  and  beautiful. 


88  Aliami   Woodi. 


Miami  Woods  I — Tiu'  jrlory  *>f  a  Dream 
Rests  on  and  iK-autiHcs  the  Ileal  now. 
What  UMtn  nu'  your  riii-ntlly  shade."*  have  been, 
That  will  they  be  forever — even  more. 
A  sorrow  eommon  nuiko.s  a  eimimon  bond 
Where  else  there  would  be  none.  '  Ye  have  IndielJ 
My  hiiiiian  anL'nish,  and  my  human  joy  : 
Ye  are  the  friend  to  whnni,  in  after  years, 
My  heart  will  oftenest  turn,  amid  its  toil, 
And  sorrow,  and  disniav  :   vour  Imisouj  holds 
What  tint'i  it  was  ninn-  than  words  can  tell: 
lint  heiKv  my  voiee  is  silent  in  these  gnives — 
I  siuLT  no  more  the  beauty  and  the  strenL'tli 
Ili're  traee<l  in  numy  a  green  and  flowery  Hue, 
And  standing  in  the  arching  majesty 
Of  ti'iiiplcs  whose  gigantic  pillars  rest 
In  the  foinidalions  of  far  «'enturies: 
I  sing  no  more  the  |ta.-<sion  ami  the  |iain 
That  here  <t'ereame  me:   the  trium|tlmnt  joy 
With  which,  when  la>t  I  bade  these  scenes  farewell, 
I  went  u|M>n  my  way,  all  starr'd  with  light, 
I  sing  no  more  forever.     The  sweet  hojx-. 


LEnVmj. 

That  like  au  angel  sat  beside  my  lieart 
Aud  sang  away  its  sorrow  then,  hath  since 
Gone  down  in  desolation.     That  which  was 
The  central  harmony  of  all  this  song, 
The  beautiful  young  Life  that  to  each  swell 
And  cadence  gave  the  spirit  that  it  hath, 
It  is  no  more  a  bodily  presence  here, 
It  is  no  more  of  earth ;  and  now  the  last 
Faint  strain  of  this  prolonged  aud  fitful  lay, 
Which  but  for  her,  and  for  the  love  she  bore 
These  scenes,  had  known  no  second  touch,  must  die 
Into  a  mui-murous  sound — a  sigh — a  breath. 
8 


'      WM 


W    "M  <S)o(bcn  '^cei^m^. 


II. 


The  Kolling  Fork  ix  Haedin. 

ilOTHERS   OF    THE   WeST. 

Among  the  Green  Hills  of  Adair 
Lynn's  Station  on  Beargrass. 

LOYE-LlFE    ON    THE    ElKHORN. 

The  Song  of  the  Pioneers. 
The  Banks  of  the  Tennessee. 


^  ^olticn  ^BctitidtQ, 


THE  ROLLING  FORK. 

I. 

On  the  Rolling  Fork  iu  Hardiu, 

AVhcre  the  winds  and  waters  chime, 
And  sing  to  the  listening  traveler 

Songs  full  of  the  olden  time, 
Stood  a  dwelling  thrown  wide  open 

To  the  Avanton  airs  of  jNIay, 
That  stole  up  over  sloping  meadows 

Which  stretched  from  its  doors  away— 
Here  dotted  with  groves,  there  reaching 

To  sunny  and  shady  nooks, 
Where  the  elder-bloom  sway'd  gently 

To  the  ripple  of  purling  hrooks, 
And  where  the  voices  of  children 

From  blossoming  thickets  rang. 
As,  with  jest,  and  shout,  and  banter, 

From  rock  to  rock  they  sprang. 

H. 

'T  was  the  home  of  an  aged  couple, 
Who  many  and  many  a  year 


94 


A  Gohh'n  M'fdding. 


H:i(l  sirtvii  ami  rcapM  ami  icariK-rVl 

The  fruits  of  lifi-'s  lal)nrs  lu-re. 
And  now  there  had  pladly  g:itlier'd, 

From  near  and  fmin  lar  away, 
A  merry  troop  of  thi-ir  kindred, 

And  friends  of  an  early  day  : 
For  this  was  their  "Golden  AVeddinfr;" 

And  the  heavens  stoop'd  down  and  smiled 
As  sweetly  and  tenderly  o'er  them. 

As  a  mother  o'er  her  child. 
Songs  of  birds,  an<l  the  breath  of  flowers, 

Floated  in  on  the  suiniy  air; 
Ami  (iod's  Ix'iiison  seem'd  resting 

All  runnd  them,  everywhere. 


As  fiitiid  mtt  fritiid  with  gri-etinp', 

How  rapitlly  backward  llrw 
The  curtains  of  time,  displayim: 

The  sc<'nes  of  the  pa<t  anew  I 
And  soon  they  were  where  Lake  Krie 

Heaved  its  billows  like  the  sea. 
And  then  by  the  moaning  waters 

(  H"  the  l>:itlle-st:iinM  Maiiniee  ; 
And  niion  wln-re  tin*  brigiit  Scioto 

hay's  arrowy  In-ams  lla.-h'd  l>ack, 
.\s  it  watcr'd  the  Indian  gardens 


-  The  liolUng  Fork  in  Hardin.  95 

That  border'd  its  shining  track  : 
Then  they  saw  the  blood  of  their  kindred 

Tinge  the  Wabash  and  the  Thames, 
And  anon  heard  the  streams  of  Kentucky 

Murmuring  their  houor'd  names. 

IV. 

And  as  the  lengthening  shadows 

Of  the  years  still  upward  roU'd, 
And  they  talk'd  of  the  days  of  their  danger, 

And  the  tales  of  their  triumphs  told, 
Tears  gather'd  in  silent  sorrow 

For  some  who  had  found  their  rest 
Ere  blazed  in  its  fullness  the  glory 

That  dawn'd  on  the  Early  West. 
But  they  all  felt  proud  of  the  heroes 

Who  had  sprung  at  their  country's  call, 
For  its  flag,  which  they  carried,  to  battle, 

For  their  homes,  if  'twere  needed,  to  fall. 
And  the  tears  which  had  started  in  sorrow. 

And  silence,  were  check'd  by  their  pride. 
And  they  still  talk'd  old  times  with  the  bridegroom, 

And  recall'd  still  old  sports  to  the  bride. 

V. 

And  while  far  behind  on  life's  highways 
Their  thoughts  were  thus  tenderly  cast. 


96  A  Golden  Wedding. 

Olio  rose  ill  their  midst  and  recited 

Tlii-s  page  from  the  Book  of  the  Past — 

One  who,  in  tlie  strcugtli  of  liis  manhood, 

Hail  iiiovtd  oft  in  tlie  scenes  now  brought  luick. 

Ami  rcmeiuber'd  the  Woman's  devotion 
All  along  the  Man's  perilous  track: — 

Tin:  MOTIIEIIS  OF  THE  WEST. 

1. 
The  mothers  of  our  Forest-Land ! 

Stout-hearted  dames  were  they; 
With  nerve  to  wielil  the  hattle-brand, 

Ami  join  the  bordiT  Cray. 
Our  piugh  land  had  no  braver 

III  its  days  of  blood  and  -trifi — 
Ave  ready  for  severest  toil, 

Aye  free  to  peril  life. 

The  mothers  of  our  Forest-Laml ! 

( )ii  old  Kentucky's  .-oil, 
How  shared  they,  with  each  tlauntless  band, 

War's  tcmjHst,  and  life's  toil! 
They  shnmk  not  from  the  fotnian. 

Till  V  iiuail'd  not  in  the  light. 
But  eheer'd  their  husbands  through  the  day, 

And  sooth'd  them  ihruiiLdi  the  night. 


The  Mothers  of  the  West  97 


3. 
The  mothers  of  our  Forest-Laud ! 

TJieir  bosoms  pillow'd  men  ; 
And  proud  were  they  by  such  to  stand 

In  hammock,  fort,  or  glen; 
To  load  the  sure  old  rifle — 

To  run  the  leaden  ball — 
To  watch  a  battling  husband's  place, 

And  fill  it  should  he  fall. 

4. 

The  mothers  of  our  Forest-Land ! 

Such  were  their  daily  deeds : 
Their  monument — whei-e  does  it  stand  ? 

Tlieir  epitaph — who  reads  ? 
No  braver  dames  had  Sparta — 

No  nobler  matrons  Rome — 
Yet  who  or  lauds  or  honors  them, 

Ev'n  in  their  own  green  home  ? 

5. 

The  mothers  of  our  Forest-Land ! 

They  sleep  in  unknown  graves  ; 
And  had  they  borne  and  nursed  a  band 

Of  ingrates,  or  of  slaves, 

9 


98  A  Golden  Wedding. 

Tlioy  liail  not  boon  nioro  notrli'ctcd  I 
But  tlu'ir  ;rr.ivo.s  shall  yet  1)0  found. 

Anil  thoir  monuments  dot  here  and  there 
♦'The  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground!" 

VI. 
The  pluudit-s  that  rose  from  the  many, 

And  the  chatter  that  fell  from  the  few, 
Were  silenced  ere  long  by  a  trumpet, 

Which  peal'd  «.ut  the  "Rod,  White  and  Blue;" 
And  then,  oft  witii  tremulous  cadence, 

And  tones  that  made  holy  the  air, 
From  tlio  hall  camo  this  song  of  a  sorrow 

Among  the  (Jrcon  Hills  of  Adair — ■ 
The  violin  measuring  fitly 

The  depth  of  the  fooling  oxpress'd. 
And  the  inrthod  and  voice  of  the  singer 

Soon  winning  the  lu'i.rt  of  each  gU(\<t  :  — 

AMONG  Till-:  (.i;i:i:n  hills  of  adahi, 
1. 

How  oft  in  the  spirit  wo  yoarn 

For  facts  and  forms  tliat  have  fled  ! 

While  the  i-alin  lights  of  memory  Imin. 

How  oft  from  the  living  wo  turn 
r..  thoiload! 


-  Among  the  Green  Hills  of  Adair.  99 

So  my  tlaoughts  now  go  wandering  back, 
O'er  a  quiet  and  shadowy  track, 
Till  they  rest  by  a  murmuring  stream, 
Where  in  years  gone  I  dream'd  a  sweet  dream, 

Among  the  green  hills  of  Adair —    . 

The  beautiful  hills  of  Adair. 

2. 

And  a  maiden,  as  sweet  as  the  flowers 
That  bloom'd  by  that  murmuring  stream, 

Walk'd  beside  me  among  the  wild  bowers, 

Through  the  months,  and  the  days,  and  the  hours, 
Of  that  dream. 

But  a  messenger  cruel  as  Death 

Broke  in  on  that  dream,  and  her  breath 

Pass'd  away  with  a  prayer  and  a  sigh. 

As  that  murmuring  stream  glided  by, 
Among  the  green  hills  of  Adair — 
The  beautiful  hills  of  Adair. 

3. 

But  I  wander  there  yet,  and  I  hear 

The  tones  of  that  murmuring  stream; 
And  the  form  and  the  face  that  were  dear, 
In  the  beauty  of  youth  re-appear ; 

And  I  dream — 
Oh,  I  dream  of  a  Laud  and  a  Life, 


100  A  Golden  WefhUiig. 

T. villi;  fur  l)oyiiiiil  tartli  ami  its  ,-trite, 
NN'luR'in,  nut  agaiu  to  ho  rros/d, 
I  shall  find  the  sweet  spirit  I  lost 

Among  the  green  hills  of  A(hiir- 

Tho  beautiful  hills  of  Adair. 

VII. 
The  refrain  hatl  srarco  dird  to  a  nnirnmr, 

Whc  II  a  woman  well  stricken  in  years, 
Sang  the  song  of  Lynn's  Station  on  Beargrass, 

In  tones  that  brought  many  to  tears : — 

LYNN'S   STATION    ON    BEAllOrwVSS. 

I. 

As  the  cliiuds  and  the  shadows  ar(^  liftrd, 

.\iid  pill  iVoiii  my  vision  away, 
Lvnn's  Station  appears  on  the  IVargra.^s, 

With  th(>  gn-en  gmvcs  around  it  that  lay; 
And  I  see  gallant  lorm.-  and  swrct  laces, 

Such  as  1  frightened  a  day  that  is  o'er, 
And  mv  ear  catches  faint  and  far  echoes 

Of  voices  I'll  hear  never-more — 
Never-more — never-more — 

Loved  voict's  I'll  hear  again  never, 
Kever-more. 


Lynn's  Station  on  Beargrass.  101 


2. 

Now  my  mind  and  my  heart,  in  their  fullness, 

Wander  Ijack  to  the  days  that  have  been, 
And  my  breast  swells  and  throbs  with  emotion, 

Over  memories  of  girlhood  and  Lynn. 
Although  dangers  there  threaten'd  us  often, 

Man's  strong  arm  was  a  shield  and  a  spear; 
And  woman's  true  heart  made  it  stronger, 

As  she  bravely  sang  out,  "Never  fear! — 
Never  fear! — never  fear! 

Though  the  strong  win  not  always  the  battle, 
Never  fear ! " 

3. 

And  now  I  behold  Nannie  Allen, 

Who  was  kill'd  in  her  maidenly  bloom, 
And  her  gallant  young  lover,  John  Martin, 

Who  in  tears  and  alone  dug  her  tomb. 
On  a  green  grassy  knoll,  by  the  river, 

O'erlookiug  the  Falls  far  below, 
In  the  flush  and  the  flower  of  her  beauty, 

We  laid  her  to  rest  long  ago — 
Long  ago — long  ago — 
And  the  winds  and  the  waves  sang  her  requiem. 
Long  ago. 


102  A  Golden  Wedding. 


VIII. 
The  tones  of  tlic  violin  linfjcred, 

As  if  tlu  V  were  j)art  of  the  air, 
IinprfiriiiiiL:  the  place  witli  the  holy 

And  heautil'ul  spirit  of'praver: 
Ere  long,  thoujrh,  the  murmur  was  broken 

})y  a  ri'sniiaiit  clarion  Mast, 
And  before  the  enraptured  assendily 

The  host  and  the  hostess  pass'd. 
On  their  taking  position  together, 

The  clarion  ended  its  play — 
And  he  sang  then  this  song  of  their  Love-Life 

In  Kentucky's  old  Pioneer-Day:  — 

LOVE-LIFE  ON  TIIL  ELKlIoUX. 

1. 

We  met  first  'mid  the  horrors  of  battle, 

W  liilr  rang  tlii-  red  savage's  veil, 
Where  some  of  our  i)olde.-t  and  i)ravest 

By  rille  and  tomahawk  fill. 
She  .st«M)d  l)y  the  door  of  a  <'abin, 

Unshrinking,  ditermined  and  grand. 
From  a  loophoK-  surveying  the  struggle, 

An  axe  duly  poisetl  in  her  hanil. 


Love  Life  on  Hie  Elkhoiii.  103 


2. 
I  bridled  a  steed  that  was  halter'd 

In  a  shed  that  stood  haply  behind, 
And  pointing  the  way  that  was  safest, 

She  mounted  and  rode  like  the  wind. 
With  night  the  fierce  battle  was  over, 

And  we  cared  for  our  wounded  and  slain, 
Yet  till  peace  spread  its  wings  o'er  Kentucky 

In  beauty,  we  met  not  again. 

3. 

But  peace  brought  the  triumphs  of  labor, 

And  scattered  the  shadows  of  gloom, 
And  the  green  fertile  shores  of  the  Elkhorn 

Soon  reveFd  in  beauty  and  bloom. 
And  then,  as  if  heaven-directed,  ' 

We  met  where  that  cabin  once  stood, 
And  walk'd  hand-in-hand  where  our  heroes 

Had  gone  down  in  battle  and  blood. 

4. 

And  we  met  there  again,  and  there  plighted 

Our  faith  to  each  other  for  life ; 
And  never  on  earth  yet  has  Heaven 

Dealt  kindlier  with  husband  and  wife. 


104  A  Golden  Wedding. 

Ami  ill  inoninry  now  wc  toirctlicr 

Cio  luick  wIktc  that  cabin  once  stood. 

And  thank  (iod  that  soon  out  of  the  evil 
\Vc  witnt'ssM  ant  I  shared,  came  the  good. 

IX. 
At  tlic  close  came  kind  words  antl  pM>d  wishes 

From  all,  that  were  fervent  and  true; 
And  the  drum  and  the  fdc  and  the  trumjK't 

rtalt<l  uut  airain,  "  Iu<l.  White,  and  Hluel" 
Then  came,  tl);itini:  in  fmin  the  porches, 

A  smothcrM  and  twitterimr  hum. 
And  the  y»>iinj;  clapiul  their  hands  :ls  tluy  shouted- 

*'The  Pioneer  Le;jion  has  come!" 
And  a  do/.eii  in  hiukskiii-lireeches, 

liy  huntinj^-shirts  overhun;,', 
AValk'd  in  under  caps  of  'coonskin, 

And  salutctl  Itoth  old  and  younjr  : 
And  tiu-y  l)eat  then  the  stately  nuirclK>8 

Of  timi',  on  the  notes  of  the  years, 
As  they  sanjr.  to  a  fittini;  melody. 

The  Sont:  of  the  Pinneei-s:  — 

'nil:  -i»N(i  (»i"  riii;  rit)M:i:Ks. 
1. 

A  son;r  for  tin-  I'.arly  Times  ( )ut  Wc.-t, 
An«l  our  {j:reeu  old  forest-houjc. 


Song  of  the  Pioneers.  105 


A^Tiose  pleasant  memories  freshly  yet 

Across  tlie  bosom  come  : 
A  song  for  tlie  free  and  gladsome  life 

In  those  early  days  we  led, 
With  a  teeming  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  a  smiling  Heav'n  o'erhead  ! 
Oh,  the  waves  of  life  danced  merrily, 

And  had  a  joyous  flow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 

2. 
The  hunt,  the  shot,  the  glorious  chase, 

The  captured  elk,  or  deer; 
The  camp,  the  big  bright  fire,  and  then 

The  rich  and  wholesome  cheer: — 
The  sweet  sound  sleep  at  dead  of  night, 

By  our  camp-fires  blazing  high — 
Unbroken  by  the  wolf's  long  howl. 

And  the  panther  siDringiug  by. 
Oh,  merrily  pass'd  the  time,  despite 

Our  wily  Indian  foe. 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 

3. 
"We  shunn'd  not  labor :  wlien  't  was  due 

We  wrought  with  right  good  will ; 


lOG  A  Golden  Wedding. 

And  for  tlie  homes  \\v  won  for  them, 

Our  chihlrcn  bless  us  still. 
We  lived  not  licrniit  lives,  Init  oft 

In  social  converse  met ; 
And  fires  of  love  wen-  kindled  tlien. 

That  Idirn  mi  warmly  yet. 
Oh.  pleasantly  the  stream  of  life 

I'nrsued  its  constant  flow. 
In  the  (lays  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago. 

4. 
We  felt  that  wc  were  fellow  men; 

We  felt  we  were  a  l»and, 
Snstain'd  here  in  the  wilderness 

l'>y  Heaven's  upholding'  hand. 
And  when  the  solemn  Siihl)ath  came, 

Assend)ling  in  the  wood, 
We  lifted  up  our  hearts  in  prayer 

To  ( lud  the  only  <  loud. 
Our  temples  then  were  earth  and  sky; 

None  others  di*l  we  know. 
In  the  days  when  we  were  I'iouccrs, 

Fifty  yeai*s  ag(t ! 

Our  forestdife  was  rou^h  and  rude. 

And  daniiers  elo.«4ed  us  round; 
Bnt  lure,  amid  the  grceu  old  tn-es, 


Song  of  the  Pioneers.  107 

Freedom  was  sought  and  found. 
Oft  through  our  dwellings  wintry  blasts 

Would  rush,  with  shriek  and  moan; 
We  cared  not — though  they  were  but  frail, 

We  felt  they  were  our  own  ! 
Oh,  free  and  manly  lives  we  led, 

Mid  verdure,  or  mid  snow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 

6. 

But  now  our  course  of  life  is  short ; 

And  as,  from  day  to  day, 
We  're  walking  on  with  weakening  step, 

And  halting  by  the  way, 
Another  Land  more  bright  than  this, 

To  our  dim  sight  appears. 
And  on  our  way  to  it  we  all 

Are  moving  with  the  years. 
Yet  while  we  linger,  we  may  still 

Our  backward  glances  throw. 
To  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 

The  Wedding-Feast  followed. —     . 
•     AVhen  evening 
Had  quietly  yielded  to  night, 


108  A  Golden  Wedding. 

The  grove  at  the  front  was  fountl  l)laziug, 

Every  tree  with  it.s  lautcru  a-light. 
And  soon  from  a  garlanded  terrace, 

The  vit)l  and  trump  made  their  «lin, 
rjiving  phiee,  Jis  the  company  irathcr'd, 

Ttt  the  notes  of  the  gay  violin. 
Then  tiu-  ( "oiiiitry-Danct'  answered  with  spirit 

To  (»ld  Rosin's  familiar  aj)iK'al, 
And  Cotillions  glode  (m,  through  the  Gallop 

And  Waltz,  to  Virginia's  old  Keel. 
Ami  the  Past  and  the  Present  there  miiigleil, 

As  the  old  and  the  young  thus  met, 
That  day  tliroughout  life  to  remember, 

And  that  night  never,  never  forget. 

XI. 
Thus  en(Ud  that  ( ioLDKN  \Vi;i>i)iN«i. 

An  hour  ere  the  dawn  of  day, 
On  the  Rolling  Fork  of  Hardin, 

III  the  flowery  month  of  May  ; 
And  liefore  the  bright  sun  had  risen 

All  the  guests  their  couches  press'd, 
\\\  the  muninir  of  wiiuls  and  waters 

(Jently  w<MK'd,  and  lull'd  to  rest — 
All  but  one,  whom  the  chains  of  memory 

Held  so  tirm  in  their  thraldom  still. 
That  a  link  ev'ii  lunl  ir>t  Iwiii  broken 


On  the  Banks  of  the  Tennessee.  109 

By  the  waltz,  or  the  lithe  quadrille : 
Aud  from  him,  as  the  host  and  hostess 

At  IcDgth  their  chamber  sought, 
A  low  aud  tremulous  murmur 

Their  ears  for  a  moment  caught ; 
And  soon,  as  they  jiaused  to  listen, 

They  heard,  low-toned  but  free, 
This  song  of  an  old  log-cabin 

On  the  Banks  of  the  Tennessee : — 


ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  TENNESSEE. 

1. 

I  sit  by  the  open  window 

And  look  to  the  hills  aw^ay, 
Over  beautiful  undulations 

That  glow  with  the  flowers  of  May — 
And  as  the  lights  and  the  shadows 

With  the  passing  moments  change, 
Comes  many  a  scene  of  beauty 

Within  my  vision's  range — 
But  there  is  not  one  among  them 

That  is  half  so  dear  to  me, 
As  an  old  log-cabin  I  think  of 

On  the  banks  of  the  Tennessee. 


110  A  Golden  Wedding. 


2. 

Now  up  from  the  rollini:  meadows, 

Ami  (liiwii  fiMiii  the  hill-tojis  now, 
Fivsh  l>ri'i'zrs  steal  in  at  my  window. 

And  sweetly  fiui  my  hrow — 
And  tiie  sounds  that  they  leather  ami  luinLT  nie, 

I-'roni  rivulet,  and  nuadow,  ami  liill. 
Com*'  in  with  a  touehini;  eadi-nee, 

And  my  throbbing  bosom  fill — 
But  the  dearest  thoughts  thus  waken'd, 

And  in  tears  brought  back  to  me, 
Cluster  round  that  old  logH'abin 

Oil  the  bauks  of  the  Teunessce. 

3. 
To  nuxny  a  fond  remond)ran('C 

My  thoughts  are  backward  cast, 
As  I  sit  by  the  open  window 

And  r.call  llir  faded  ]>ast — 
For  all  along  the  windings 

Of  the  ever-moving  years, 
Lie  wrecks  of  hojK'  ami  of  purixiso 

That  1  now  belinid  tlirough  teai*s — 
Ami  of  all  of  them,  tiu'  sadtlcst 

That  is  thus  brou'^dit  back  to  me. 


I 


-    On  the  Banl'S  of  the  Tennessee.  Ill 

Makes  holy  that  old  log-cabin 
On  the  banks  of  the  Tennessee. 


Glad  voices  now  greet  me  daily, 

Sweet  faces  I  oft  behold, 
Yet  I  sit  by  the  open  window, 

And  dream  of  the  times  of  old — 
Of  a  voice  that  on  earth  is  silent. 

Of  a  face  that  is  seen  no  more, 
Of  a  spirit  that  falter'd  not  ever 

In  the  struggle  of  days  now  o'er — 
And  a  beautiful  grave  comes  pictured 

Forever  and  ever  to  me, 
From  a  knoll  near  that  old  log-cabin 

On  the  banks  of  the  Tennessee. 


I 


III. 


The  Portico. 

The  Temple. 

The  Gardens  of  Nature. 

The  Happy  Valleys. 


I. 


I. 

There  is  a  temple,  not  made  with  hands, 
That  out  in  the  broad  blue  firmameut  stands. 
From  the  silence  and  shade  of  its  Portico, 
I  lookt  out  o'er  the  landscape  that  lay  below : — 
Green,  meadowy  reaches,  in  light  that  ran 
To  the  edgings  of  brown  where  groves  began ; 
With  here-and-there,  now  miss'd,  now  met, 
The  silvery  line  of  a  rivulet. 
That  up  fi-om  its  fringing  greenness  glanced, 
As  into  the  thickets  and  out  it  danced ; 
And  away,  but  indistinct  and  dim, 
On  the  broad  savanna's  farthest  rim. 
Embowered  in  beauty,  Avhat  seem'd  to  be 
The  dwellings  of  men,  all  tranquilly 
Reposing  in  fields  around  them  spread, 
As  calm  as  the  heav'n  that  arch'd  o'er  head. 

II. 

And  over  the  greenness,  and  over  the  brown 
That  fell  from  the  groves  like  a  mantle  down, 

(115) 


116  In  Jlcaltis. 

Soon  spread  a  mystical  jjlamour,  lx)rn 
In  part  of  the  night,  in  part  of  the  morn, 
Whose  soft,  warm  colors,  drifting  hy, 
1-iay  aiii'M  jiki.  mist  on  the  iniml  anil  the  eye; 
And  visions  of  wonder,  half  fcar'd,  half  enjoy'd, 
Floating  uj).  sailing  on,  fill'd  that  mystical  void. 
As  I  lookt,  still,  and  marvil'd,  I  ftlt  rouml  mc  fall 
The  gloom  of  the  clond  that  now  rests  on  us  all — 
Th«  wing  of  the  shadow,  the  weight  of  the  frown, 
Tliat  in  Eden  with  word?  of  upbraiding  came  down; 
And  out  of  the  distance  and  darkues.s  stole  in 
Troubled  sounds;  and  then  o'er  the  Iwwildering  din, 
Breaking  through  the  sweet  songs  of  the  hrtMiks  and 

the  trees. 
Rose  this  Wail,  fl^  Mtiip/  nn  on  tin-  lin  ntli  i.fili.'  hreeze:  — 

WAIL  OF  IIIMAN  SI'IKITS. 

1. 

DiscnthraUM.  we  yet  linger:  not  of  earth,  we  are  here: 
And  wi-  move  in  the  Mystery  yet — year  after  vear. 
Ijike  a  sunlieam  from  Darkness  to  Light  we  were  horn — 
lUil  our  breath  pa.-.-M  away  with  the  mistd  of  the  m.ini. 

Like  the  grass  of  the  field,  ere  the  seed  is  yet  bnnrn, 
We  were  markl  for  the  scvthe,  and  cut  ruthle^slv  down  : 


TJie  Portico.  117 

Like  the  fldw'r  of  the  grass  we  were  wafted  away — 
Aud  the  Night  came  before  we  well  knew  it  was  Day. 

3, 

In  the  Mystery  still  do  we  grope ;  and  we  figlit 
With  vague  shades  in  a  void  that  ne'er  promises  light, 
And  yet  never  brings  darkness:  we  linger,  and  grope, 
And  despair  never  comes,  yet  we  never  know  hope. 

4. 

It  is  never  so  dark  but  that  shadows  we  see : 
It  is  light  enough  never  from  darkness  to  flee : 
The  silence  oppresses,  bewilders,  confounds, 
Yet  less  than  the  voices,  which  never  arc  sounds. 

III. 

The  air  labor'd  heavily.     Shadowy  forms. 

Like  those  that  oft  mai'shal  the  quick-coming  storms 

When  Aries  or  Libra  full-haloed  appears. 

And  rules  o'er  the  earth  from  the  path  of  the  spliercs, 

Came  and  went.     Then  the  winds,  as  appall'd,  held  their 

breath. 
And  the  forms  that  they  bore  became  quiet  as  death : 
E'en  the  woods  ccast  to  murmur — the  brooks  to  rejoice — 
Aud  all  life  lay  in  trance,  without  moti(jn  or  voice. 
— Of  a   sudden,  the  cry  of  the  bittern  was  heard, 
And  the  eartli  in  the  breatli  of  the  huiricanc  stir'd  : 


118  In  RrnllU 

Thou  the  air  for  a  moment  prew  thick,  and  a^rain 
The  clouds,  like  a  fleet  of  ships  cau<.'ht  <»n  the  main 
In  the  sweep  of  Euroclydon,  wildly  were  <lriven 
AikI  tnst  like  the  sea-foam,  until  llu-  pale  heaven 
Shone  faintly  between  them,  and  snuled  on  the  path 
Which  the  hurricane's  breath  hatl  just  swe])t  in  its  wrath. 
Then  fpiiet  came  back,  and  the  sun,  and  the  bree/.e ; 
And  the  brookd  sauij  again  to  the  winds  and  the  trees. 

IV. 
So(m  chants  as  of  triumi>]i,  tlmuirh  not  as  of  war, 
Stole  tlirilliuLdy  in  from  the  silence  afar; 
And  this  Sonjjj  of  the  Soniphim,  borne  from  above, 
Where  no  mutterinirs  of  Hate  nuir  the  anthem*;  of  Love, 
Took  till"  ithice  of  the  Wail  of  distrust  and  despair, 
And  with  liariiiiiny  lill'd  every  wave  of  the  air. 

sox(;  oi'  Tin:  siikaimum. 
1. 

I 'p.  where  the  Kinir  of  ( ilnry  sits. 

Here  wlu-re  His  I'eople  have  their  hnmes. 

Never  the  wing  of  a  shadow  flits. 
Never  the  wail  I'f  a  sorrow  comes; 

P>iil  the  glimmer  of  star-;,  and  the  irleam  of  the*  sun, 
.\iid   the  light    thai   .-treani-    fV.im    the    higli   white 
riin>iii\ 


The  PoHlco.  119 

Shine  ■wlille  the  heavenly  anthems  run, 
Where  angels  the  words  of  Love  intone, 

2. 

Out  of  the  mists,  and  above  the  din, 

Here,  where  the  King  of  Glory  reigns. 
Never  a  shadow  enters  in, 

Never  a  troubled  voice  complains : 
But  angels  sing  the  Song  of  the  Lamb, 

Whereat  the  Trail  of  the  Serpent  ends  : 
And  the  Voice  of  the  high-enthroned  "  I  Am" 

A  hope  for  man  through  the  ages  sends. 

3. 
Up  where  the  King  of  Glory  sits. 

Out  of  the  mist,  and  above  the  din, 
Never  the  wing  of  a  shadow  flits. 

Never  a  sorrow  enters  in  : 
But  light  and  love,  and  prayer  and  praise, 

And  charity  that  all  invites, 
JNIake  up  the  measureless,  endless  days, 

The  days  of  hea^''n,  that  know  no  nights. 

V. 

And  the  arching  groves  responsive  rang, 
As  the  heav'nly  chorists  soar'd  and  sang ; 


120  In    i:.r'ill!.<. 

And  out  of  the  soft  South-Western  Land 
A  fresheuing  hree7x>  came  in,  and  I'anM 
Tlie  mists  to  motion,  an<l  touelit  the  trees 
To  jiiyiius  and  hcautiful  harmonies. 
Then  cloudlets  f»)rm'd,  and  sail'd  away 
Like  tilting  shijjs  on  a  rolling  bay  ; 
And  over  the  landseaix',  erewhile  dun, 
Flasht  brightly  the  beams  of  the  slanting  sun; 
And  the  splendor  and  beauty  of  earth  and  sky. 
Ivcflccting  the  Majesty  throned  on  high, 
IVoclaimM,  as  the  glory  spn-ad  abroad, 
The  goodness  and  powtr  and  l<>ve  of  (fod. 


The  Temple.  121 


II. 


I. 

'Twas  a  beautiful,  bright,  bland  Autumn  Day. 

A  Sabbath  hush  on  my  spirit  lay. 

I  had  heard  the  Sermon,  and  boAv'd  in  prayer, 

And  laid  my  heart  to  its  Maker  bare. 

I  had  eaten  the  fat  of  the  fruitful  land, 

And  given  God  thanks  for  His  liberal  hand. 

I  had  turn'd  from  Pilate,  and  sicken'd,  to  Christ, 

And  wept  o'er  the  Life  he  sacrificed. 

I  had  lookt  on  the  proud,  on  the  meek,  on  the  lowly. 

And  thought  of  the  Sabbath,  "to  keep  it  holy." 

I  had  walkt  with  the  Savior  in  Galilee 

And  felt  doubt,  and  confusion,  and  darkness  flee. 

II. 

Then  I  enter'd  that  Temple,  not  made  with  hands, 
That  out  in  the  broad  blue  firmament  stands. 
By  the  "Rock  of  Ages,  "  in  its  midst 
I  stood;  and  I  said  in  my  Soul:  "  Thou  didst. 
Oh  God !  this  temple  build  for  Man  : 
And  in  it  he  worshipt  ere  yet  began 
11 


122  In  Exaltis. 

Tlio  jx)n)p  an<l  prifle  itf  tlio  synafjosjues. 
And  the  Woastl'ul  striicturi's  licwn  i»f  logs 
AikI  <»f  griuiitc  iind  inarMe;  ami  l<>ug  ere  yet 
The  niusfjuo  arose,  aiul  the  minaivt. 
— If  then  an«l  thus  Thou  ilidst  h-t  liiin  1m)\v, 
And  worshii),  wilt  Thou  fn-liid  him  now?" 

III. 
Whilst  the  waving  woods,  and  the  whisjK'riug  hreeze, 
Fill'd  the  arching  groves  with  their  syini)hi>ni<  <, 
I  rose ;  and  I  felt  that  the  Sj>irit  of  God 
Fill'd  the  Tciiiiilc  lie  tiiuiidcil,  \\\'^\\  and  broad; 
Anil  I  said  in  my  smuI,  as  I  ga/.i-d  up  ainive, 
'Ti.s  a  Spirit  of  lilu-rty,  light,  and  love. 
And  of  mercy,  and  goodness,  ami  hcauty  ami  truth.  " 
.\ml  the  I'^aith  of  my  .\gc  ti>  the  IIi'pc  of  my  ^^.ulh 
Cried  alou<l  :  "Thou  hast  saiil  it  I  'tisu.'*  thou  hast  saiill" 
And  again  to  that  Spirit  I  how'd  down  my  head, 
And  I  worshipt.      "Oh  (rod!   if  this  worship  Ik*  not 
"NVhatThou  wiliest,"  1  (  riid,  "set  thy  sign  on  this  spot  I" 

IV. 

Ami  I  worshipt,  and  wailed.      I  got  not  a  sign; 
l)Ut  the  Spirit  of  I'eaee  re-ted  <>ii  me     was  ndne — 
And  1  worship!,  and  wailed.      No  Iloreh— ^no  hush. 
Burning  voicefid — no  Sinai,  with  tiiunders.     The  husli, 
Though,  that  came  over  natun>.  around  and  nl>ove. 


The  Temple.  123 

Fill'd  my  breast  y\\{\\  devotion,  -with  rapture,  ■with  love — 
Aud  I  worshipt,  aud  waited.     Tlien  came  unto  me, 
In  the  dej^ths  of  my  spirit,  with  tones  like  the  sea, 
This  only:  "  The  Temple  that  arches  abroad. 
Over  all,  is  the  House  of  the  Living  God  !  " 
And  then  this,  as  to  Christ  all  the  Centuries  ran, 
And  this  only :  "The  Sabbath  was  made  for  ]Man  ! " 

V. 

And  I  cried  out :   "  Oh  man !  to  the  house  of  prayer 
Made  with  hands,  go  up — for  thy  God  is  there ; 
And,  in  the  days  of  thy  beautiful  youth, 
Bow  down,  and  worship  in  spirit  and  truth ; 
In  the  mightier  years  of  thy  ripening  age. 
There  still  against  Sin  in  the  battle  engage  : 
But  say  not  of  him  who  goes  out  and  stands 
In  that  grand  old  Temple  not  made  with  hands. 
And  hungers  and  thirsts,  and  worships  and  waits. 
And  for  righteousness  longs  and  supplicates, 
That  he  errs  :  for  Christ  and  his  Cross  are  there, 
And  God's  Angels  come  to  him  unaware." 

VI. 

Then  I  thought  of  Jacob,  ])y  Isaac  sent 

Afar  into  TIaran,  and  then,  as  he  went. 

Of  the  ladder  at  Bethel,  Avhereon  in  the  night 

Moved  the  Angels  of  God,  in  their  vestments  of  light; 


12  i  In  Exnliii. 

Of  the  Spirit,  with  purpisc  lx?uign  and  strong. 
That  nt  Penucl  met  J:ict»b,  and  wrestled  long ; 
Ami  tlu'U  of  the  Voice  that  so  often  s]vjkc 
To  Moses,  who  l>roke  the  Egyptian  yoke  ; 
or  the  Raveu3  that  fed,  in  his  sore  distress, 
Elijali  prone  in  the  Wilderness  ; 
And  tlie  hungry  hosts,  that  on  manna  fed. 
And  I)y  unseen  hands  were  comforted. 

VII. 

And  I  thought  of  the  Dove  that  came  to  Christ, 
When  he  rose  from  the  water,  by  John  baptized  ; 
Of  the  ^lountain  of  Light,  and  the  Shining  Cloud, 
Antl  the  Voice  that  out  of  it  sj)oke  aloud ; 
Of  the  Light  that  arrested  and  startled  Paul 
On  his  way  to  Dama.><cus  down  ;  anil  tlie  call 
That  then  sh(M)k  his  soul;  and  the  thick,  dull  night, 
That  lay  on  his  eyes  when  withdrew  that  Light ; 
Of  the  Tones  that  at  Corinth  l)ailc  him  "Cesuse 
Not  thou,  nor  fear,  nor  yet  hold  thy  peace  ;  " 
Ami  of  all  sights  and  souikIs,  of  the  earth  and  air, 
Which  proclaim  that — "God  is  Everywhere  !  " 


^>i*:^^^'ii^y. 


Gardens  of  Nature.  125 


III. 


I. 

I  rambled  o'er  the  meadow-lands  ; 

I  walkt  along  the  river :  — 
The  sun  was  shooting  golden  shafts 

From  out  his  autumn  quiver  ; 
The  slanting  arrows  hit  the  waves, 

Refracted,  and  ascended. 
Till  in  the  shimmering  air  above 

With  gathering  mists  they  blended. 
Effulgent  glory  clothed  the  sky, 

A  billowy  blaze  the  river, 
And  still  the  golden  arrows  sped 

From  out  their  autumn  quiver. 
I  thought  of  God  and  Paradise, 

Of  Christ  and  the  Hereafter, 
Till  rous'd  by  children,  hurrying  by 

From  play,  with  songs  and  laughter. 

II. 
I  mounted  then  the  river  hills. 
And  lookt  down  in  the  valleys :  — 


iL'i;  Ju   ExaUi*. 

Tho  hccch-trccs  ptood  in  shiiiiu'^  cliini])s; 

Tlic  maples  ranged  in  alleys  ; 
The  gum  here  plumed  the  eloping  way, 

Willi  niuiK'lopsid  twining*  ; 
AVhile  not  far  ofT  the  monarch  oak 

Ilung  o'er  the  sumach  liniii'^s. 
The  hill-sides,  bright  with  autumn  luies, 

Now  chuliinLT  il  tlu'  near  lieavi'n, 
Alon;r  whoi>e  curves  the  <M>lden  clouds 

To  silvery  shafts  were  driven. 
But  neither  put  such  glory  on 

As  clothed  the  gleaming  river, 
^Vhcre  still  the  sun's  swift  arrows  set 

The  gathering  niists  a-<iuiver. 

111. 
The  frost  had  done  its  artist-work  :  — 

Bright  li-aves,  around  me  falling, 
IJlent  their  low  rustle  with  the  touea 

Of  ili>l:int  voices,  calling 
The  cattle  from  the  fields  below. 

I  heard  the  swcct  Ik-IIs  tinkle, 
As  homeward  wound  the  kin*'.      I  saw 

Tin-  fcrtis  and  niossi-s  sprinkle 
My  winding  patliway  down  the  sIojh) 

With  inor«'  than  earthly  gnices. 
I  lieanl  aloft  the  freshening  winds, 


Gardens  of  Xature.  127 

And  saw  below  their  paces  ; 
And  soon  I  felt  my  new-strung  nerves 

"With  pleasure  stir  and  tingle, 
As  banks  of  clouds,  with  sunset  fill'd, 

Came  blazing  up  the  dingle. 

IV. 

Dazed  with  the  beauty,  long  I  stood. 

As  't  were  'twixt  earth  and  heaven, 
And  gazed  with  wonder.     "  And  all  this," 

I  said,  "  O  man !  Avas  given, 
In  the  beginning,  unto  thee  : 

Yet  thou  didst  scorn  the  Giver  !  " 
No  more.     There  was  no  more  to  say !  .   .  . 

Far  up  the  rounding  river 
I  saw  the  city's  steeples  shine  : 

I  knew  what  lay  around  them  ; 
I  knew  the  people's  pride  and  sin  ; 

I  knew  the  chains  that  bound  them ; 
And,  turning  from  all  this,  I  gazed 

Once  more  on  earth  and  heaven. 
As  uj)  from  off  the  gleaming  waves 

The  freshening  Avinds  were  driven. 

V. 

The  sun  set.     O'er  the  darkening  stream 
The  twilight  shadows  gathcr'd ; 


128  hi  ILoiliU. 

No  longer  (lanccMl  in  lii'lit  the  plumps 

With  which  tlu;  hills  wore  feather'd ; 
The  cottages  in  shallow  lay  ; 

In  shadow  lay  the  meadows ; 
Ami  uj>  the  darkening  dingle's  sides 

Like  j)hantonis  ere|it  the  shadows. 
From  farms  I  heard  the  jM.>aeoek's  cry, 

The  l)ittern's  from  the  river ; 
The  city's  lulls,  I  thought,  rang  out — 
"Deliver!  oh.  Deliver*!" 
And  now  the  heavi'ns  outshone  the  waves, 

The  hill-tops,  and  the  hollow. 
For  crimson  glory  sailM  the  curves 

Where'er  the  i-yc  could  follow. 

VI. 

I  took  my  homeward  way.      In  dusk 

It  lay,  far  up  the  dingle  ; 
And  dusky  thoughts  I  felt  conie  up, 

An*l  with  my  fancies  mingle. 
The  cottages  l(M)kt  hrown  :    I  saw 

The  darkening  shatlows  win  them  ; 
But,  U.S  I  pass'd.  the  lights  of  home 

Shone  clieerfully  within  them. 
The  hani  yanls  lookt  like  gravis,  which  here 

And  (lure  white  .*<lalw  iHsprinkle  ; 
But,  passing,  I  arous'd  the  Hocks, 


Gardens  of  Nainre.  129 

And  heard  the  slieep-bells  tinkle. 
A  wild,  dark  thicket,  far  ahead, 

Each  step  was  nearer  bringing ; 
But,  when  I  reach t  it,  deep  within 

Its  heart  a  thrush  was  singing. 

VII. 

So,  on  I  went.     And  as  I  pass'd. 

Each  shade  had  its  bright  lining ; 
And  to  my  heart  I  said :  "Oh,  heart ! 

Now  cease  thy  much  repining  ! 
If  what  thou  wan  test,  cometh  not 

To-day,  await  the  morrow ; 
And  if  to-morrow  barren  j^rove, 

Still  hold  thee  from  thy  sorrow : — 
For  it  was  sure  the  cottage  homes 

Had  lights  within  to  twinkle ; 
And  it  was  sure  the  folded  flocks 

Had  bells  that  soon  would  tinkle ; 
And  it  was  sure  the  thicket's  heart 

Would  yet  with  song  be  ringing ; 
And  so  of  thine !     No  more  repine — 

But  wait  the  Future's  bringing." 


130  In  KsullU. 


The  ?lj«ippij  ^'aliens. 


I. 

I  sut,  fur  in  tlic  cvciiiiiir. 

My  luart  and  soul  a_u;lu\v, 
Willi  some  clu'risht  tokens  by  me 

Of  the  cTiiwdcil  "Ldiiir  Ai;i>." 
I  liad  «liTr\vii  them  tVuni  recesses 

Held  as  wu-red  as  my  truth, 
Siiiuc  with  manhood's  shadows  on  tliciii. 

And  en  some  the  lights  oi"  youth  : 
And  I  noted,  as  life's  periods 

Came  together  thus  from  far. 
That  the  hriglitest  had  its  eloudlet, 

And  tlir  darkist  had  its  .-tar. 

11. 
Mv  whole  life  spread  out  hef >n'  me, 

Like  a  erowded  map  unroll'd  : 
AVith  the  free,  wild,  summery  hoyhood, 

The  staid  matdiood   -formal— I'old  ; 
All  I  hi-  dreams,  that  never  would  K', 

Tliough  1  nurst  them,  aught  /'/(/dreams; 
The  realities — hard — Hinty — 

And  with  iron  in  their  seams; 


The  Happy  Valleys.  131 

The  glad  voices,  that  are  ringing 

Even  yet,  like  marriage  bells, 
And  the  low,  sad  tones,  still  telling 

What  the  dirge  forever  tells: — 

in. 

All  spread  out  before  my  vision, 

And  stole  in  upon  my  brain, 
Till  I  lived  my  life  all  over — 

With  its  pleasure  and  its  pain. 
And  I  askt  myself:   "  Now  was  it, 

To  all  others,  or  to  you, 
WoHh  the  living,  for  the  little 

It  enabled  you  to  do  ?  " 
And  myself  replied  :   "  By  Heaven, 

Not  by  man,  are  we  approved. 
For  myself,  I  hold  it  ample 

To  have  lived,  and  to  have  loved, 

IV. 

" For  'all  others,'  the  man  liveth 

Not,  whose  judgment  I  accejit. 

Who  assails  me,  let  him  show  me 

That  he  hath  himself  not  slept 

At  his  post,  when  all  around  him 

Moved  the  foe  that  robs  and  kills — 


132  III  ExaltU. 

The  arch-enemy,  who  fillcth 

The  hrnjitl  earth  with  all  its  ills. 

By  the  jii(l;,Miient  that  's  tit"  Iliaven, 
Thi)Uf;h  its  vision  may  apitall. 

In  my  strenj^th,  or  in  my  weakness, 
1  will  stand,  or  I  will  fall!" 

V. 

To  a  livelier  sense  of  beinjr. 

With  this  answi-r  I  was  stirM  : 
But  the  dusk  within  my  eluunhcr 

8o(m  afrain  my  vi.-iMn  lihiiM  ; 
And  the  lipvcd  and  lonp-departeil 

All  eamc  hai'k  to  me  apiin — 
And  the  livinj;  loved  were  movinr^ 

In  the  bright  and  shininjr  train. 
TliiiULih  my  lile  km-w  many  sorrows, 

1  liad  eause  for  much  deliuhl  : 
Yit  my  thoughts  all  took  their  color 

From  my  chamber  and  the  uight. 

VI. 

And  aroun<l  still  troopt  the  sIkkIows 
Of  the  living  and  tlu'  thatl. 

Till  the  voice  of  the  last  de|tarted, 
In  the  old  ttines,  sweetlv  said  : 


b 


The  Happy  Valleys.  133 

"In  the  land  beyond  the  living, 

In  the  light  beyond  the  sky, 
That  is  where  the  Happy  Valleys 

Of  the  dear  departed  lie. 
When  the  golden  boAvl  is  broken, 

And  the  silver  cord  is  shred, 
We  shall  meet  there  all  together. 

You  the  living,  we  the  dead. 

vn. 

"There  are  trials  still,  and  sorrows, 

Where  the  Serpent  left  his  Trail, 
But  the  true  and  trusting  spirit 

Will  not  falter  there,  or  fail. 
In  the  Book  of  Books  'tis  written, 

By  the  Light  that  is  the  day, 
'But  my  Word,  though  all  else  perish. 

Shall  in  no  wise  pass  away ; ' 
And  that  Word  contains  the  Promise, 

That  the  weary  heart  shall  rest 
Where  the  Happy  Valleys  whiten 

With  the  Mansions  of  the  Blest." 


"'^-r.  r '^^i^M^W-:te^^ 


The  Mightier  Realm. 

Woman. 

The  Maniac. 

Mabelle  Golding. 

Over  the  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

The  Knitting  Girl. 


5rue  ^fglitf^r  3iealm. 


"A  SAILORS  YARN,"  AS  REPEATED  BY  THE  CAPTAIN. 
I. 

There  was  once  a  Queen  named  Dido, 

In  a  realm  of  the  ancient  time, 
Who  sail'd  the  sea,  right  royally, 

With  a  purpose  deem'd  sublime: 
But  she  sank  to  the  deep  sea's  bottom 

The  wealth  of  that  ancient  realm  ; 
For  her  woman-sway  was  supreme  that  day, 

And  her  hand  was  on  the  helm. 

n. 

By  the  coast  of  a  foreign  people. 

In  that  reckless  time  of  old, 
Her  anchors  she  cast — and  to  land  she  past. 

With  a  spirit  free  and  bold : 
But  the  royal  city  she  founded, 

And  builded,  and  peopled  there, 
Soon  became  the  scene  of  a  spirit  the  Queen 

Could  neither  control  nor  bear. 
12  (137) 


138  Lij't'  J'irlnres. 

III. 

So  flio  jJiulcyM  i'>>r  tiiiic  (>•  jMmdi-r; 

And  the  jK^ople  .soon  ^'ll^v  arise 
By  the  soiindini;  soa,  what  jirovcd  t»i  be 

An  altar  of  Sacrifice  : 
Ami  iin  this  tlic  liaiid  that  had  >trivon 

To  hold  and  control  the  lielm, 
With  dcsjx^nite  art  thrust  a  blade  to  her  heart ; 

And  thus  perisht  the  (^ueeu  of  that  realm. 

IV. 

There  Is  now  a  Queen  naiiud  Hido, 
In  a  realm  of  the  modern  time — 

A  realm  that  lies  'math  s«'rener  skies, 
And  with  ])urpose  niore  sublime: 

And  this  (^ueen  has  a  {H't  named  Fido — 
A  marvelous,  mischievous  thinjr, 

AVlio  |>rn|H..-e(l  oiicf  to  sail. — tliouirh  he'd  only  a  tail- 
Ami  to  take  the  (^iKi  ii  "under  his  wiiii:." 

V. 

But  she  knew  that  she  eudd  n't  lni>t  him — 

For  he  'ti  neither  a  winir  nor  a  sail 
To  respond  to  tlu-  helm;  and  her  In-autiful  realm 

Mij;ht  |)eri.>li  thus  in  tlie  irale: 
Yet  she  allowed  him  still  t<>  advise  her — 

Ami  lie  wnrkt  on  her  t'amv  oft, 


The  Mujldkr  Emhn.  139 

Till  she  thought  she  could  feel  the  lift  of  the  keel 
And  see  the  white  sails  spread  aloft, 

VI. 

The  dog  and  the  Queeu  oue  day  were  seen 

Looking  very  much  discontented  ; 
And  it  seem'd  that  they  had  quarrel'd  that  day, 

But  the  good  Queen  had  relented. 
Fido  complain'd  that  Dido  reign'd 

Too  much  in  her  own  dominions  : 
She  should  look  all  about,  and  spread  herself  out, 

And  then  try  abroad  her  pinions. 

VII. 

He  could  hardly  be  blinded : 

She  was  surely  "Strong  Minded," 
And  ready  for  self-abnegation. 

The  world,  quite  benighted, 

Could  hardly  get  righted, 
Without  her  active  co-operation ; 

But  if  she  were  once  there, 

— It  didn't  much  matter  where, 
Nor  much  matter  what  the  distance — 

All  things  would  go  right. 

Both  by  day  and  by  night, 
For  no  one  would  think  of  resistance. 


140  J/ife   Plrfurc*. 


VITT. 
8»)  the  Queen  took  n  iiotitni,  slieM  cro":.*  the  broad  <>eean, 

— This  iimrvLlou.s  Queeu  imiiied  Dulci — 
Ami  >rilh  her  she'd  take,  just  for  company's  sake, 

Her  marvelous  |>et,  mimed  Fido. 
And  they  two  went  to  sea,  ri^dit  aml>itioiL<ly, 

And  l)i<,'  with  their  mi<,dity  Endeavor, 
And  raised  the  shout,  as  their  sails  swelled  out, 

*'  Oh,  Woman  is  (^ueen  forever  I  " 

IX. 

She  stood  at  the  helm  of  her  new-found  realm, 

— This  wonderful  woman.  Dido — 
And  steer'd  the  ship  with  a  firm-sit  lip; 

While  hi;^'h  on  the  jxMip  stood  Fido, 
Watchinj;  the  seas  as  the  rising  breeze 

Dmve  the  vessel  on  before  it, 
Hut  ftarini:  a  wreck  wlu'ii  he  saw  on  the  (hrk 

How  the  wild  wuvts  tuniltled  o\r  it. 

X. 

The  Queen  was  brave;  and,  as  on  tluy  dnive. 

She  grew  stontrr  and  stoutrr  htartrd  : 
"  Blow  high!   blow  low  I"  she  sang  out,  "  I'll  go 

On  the  vt-ntun*  for  which  I  started." 


The  Mightier  Realm.  141 

*'  But  what  of  your  course  ?  "  shouted  Fido,  hoarse, 

And  trembling  with  great  emotion ; 
For  he  felt  the  ship  give  a  duck-like  dij^, 

As  they  entered  the  open  ocean. 

XI. 

The  Queen  now  felt  in  her  broad  bright  belt, 

And  her  fingers  made  quite  a  rumpus : 
"  I  have  brought  the  chart,  \Vhich  I  knew  by  heart, 

But  I  left  behind  the  compass !  " 
"Then  helm  a-port! — or  our  time  is  short 

On  this  marvelous,  mighty  ocean !  " 
Shouted  Fido  out,  as  he  glared  about 

And  saw  nothing  but  huge  commotion. 

XII. 

"  Blow  low  !  blow  high  ! — through  sea  or  sky 

I'll  sail,  and  sail  forever. 
Till  face  to  face  I  stand,  in  the  place 

I  sail'd  for,  with  my  Endeavor !  " 
Sang  out  the  Queen,  in  a  pause  between. 

The  wind's  rage  and  the  water's  : 
(So  like  the  way,  when  from  Home  they  stray 

And  its  realm,  of  Earth's  fair  daughters.) 


1J2  J/rfc  ridures. 


XIII. 
Just  then  tlie  sliip  iravf  a  tnrihK-  tlip; 

Yot,  when  it  canu*  up,  still  riirhtod; 
But  its  sails  were  split,  and  in  rihantls  slit, 

And  Fiild  yclk'd  out  alIri,Lrlited  ; 
And  the  (^uecu,  thou<rh  hold,  was  wet  and  cold, 

For  some  icebergs  drifted  near  lier, 
And  she  saw  the  mane  of  the  Hurricane, 

As  he  shook  it,  clear  and  clearer. 
Then  felt  its  dash  in  her  face,  and  the  crash 

Of  the  masts,  as  they  fell  about  her: 
But  licr  wuinan-fiiriii  still  hravcd  tlif  .-torm, 

And  lii'r  wiinian-licart  L'rrw  stouter. 

XIW 

Tlien  struck  tlit>  sliip  on  tlu-  iit!   ....    iin' dip 

( )1"  an  oar  was  all,  thereafter. 
She  knew  till  her  t'onn  lay  (juict  and  warm 

In  a  fislu-rnian's'liut  ;   an<l  a  rafter 
Tlial  nut  111  T  (lull  (Vf,  luM  lnr  cluihin;;  to  dry; 

Anil  the  fi-Iit  rnian's  wife  and  his  dauu'ht«r 
Likf  an;;fls  sat  by  her,  and  kept  up  the  tire, 

And  niinislcred  to  her.  and  tauj.'ht  her 
Till-  virtuis  and  beautirs  of  lIuMi:.  ami  its  duties 

.\iid  llic  kindni>s  iliat  lonk  in  a  .-tranger, 


The  Mujhtier  Realm.  143 

And  gave  her  the  best  that  it  had,  and  the  rest 
She  required,  and  saved  her  from  danger, 

And  death.     And  she  swore,  as  slie  tliought  it  all  o'er, 
That  never  again  would  great  Dido, 

— The  wonderful  Queen  of  this  w^onderful  scene — 
Be  led  into  folly  by  Fido ! 

XV. 

"  I  saw  the  white  speck,  as  she  stood  on  the  deck !  " 

Said  the  sailor,  with  honest  emotion ; 
"And  I  w'isht  myself  there,  near  the  Hurricane's  lair, 

For  I  know  all  his  haunts  on  the  ocean. 
Had  she  known  but  enough  to  have  given  a  '  luff! ' 

And  close  to  the  wind  held  the  vessel. 
Her  bold  Avoman  form  might  have  weather'd  the  storm, 

For  her  soul  was  full-up  to  the  wrestle ! 
As  she  lookt  at  the  foam,  on  each  billow's  dark  comb, 

Her  own  hands  by  the  helm-wheel  bound  her ; 
And  she  mockt  at  the  gale  till  it  split  every  sail, 

And  the  spars  lay  in  ruins  ai'ound  her. 
But  what  right  had  she  on  the  deck,  and  at  sea, 

"With  that  beautiful  form  by  the  helm  ? 
The  hand  fell  in  vain  on  the  Hurricane's  mane 

Which  at  Home  ruled  a  mightier  realm  ! " 


144  Life  I'ldnres. 

XXJ. 

The  captain  Inukt  iikkI  at  the  first,  ami  then  L'la<l, 

At  the  sailor's  uutsjH)kin  tinntion; 
And  after  a  while  he  sang  out,  with  a  smile: 

"Now  hear  luf,  my  brave  Son  of  the  Ocean  I" 
Ami  he  liK)kt  like  a  man  whose  thouL'hts  inwanlly  ran, 

Kre  he  gave  them  tlie  foire  of  expression; 
For  he  shielded  his  bright,  beaming  eyes  from  the  light, 

With  tluir  lashes,  and  made  no  digression:  — 

X\  11. 
*'/  liiul  in  Dido,  and  lur  pet  Fido, 

Tin:  Woman  </»'/  /i'/*  Amhitiitn  : 
Tlu-  onr  that's  tiro — the  False  and  True! 

The  outward,  seen  condition, 
Of  inward  tins,  and  wild  desire.*', 

Tiiat  burn  and  ttiupt  while  hidden: 
Thr  mastering  greed  that  yearns  to  feed 

On  fruit  to  her  forbiilden: 
The  reckless  haste  to  cross  the  waste 

Whieli  man  finds  dark  and  dreary. 
The  stublK.rn  will,  that  struggles  .-.till. 

Though  foil'd,  ami  faint,  ami  weary: 
The  (pienchles-H  thirst  that  bitls  her  burst 

Through  all  restraints  e'er  taught  her, 


The  Mightier  Realm.  145 

That  she  may  stand  iu  some  new  laud 

Aud  driuk  uutasted  water  : 
The  wish  to  go  out  to  aud  fro, 

Beyoud  the  usual  rauges, 
Aud  there  to  see  what  cau  not  be 

Till  natural  usance  changes. 

XVIII. 

"My  mind  fills  with  regret,  whenever  it's  set 

On  Woman  and  these  conditions ; 
For  could  she  but  adhere,  in  her  beautiful  sphere, 

To  its  holy  aud  beautiful  missions. 
As  I  know  iu  the  main  she  does,  and  refrain 

From  the  world's  outer  toil  and  strife, 
Oh,  how  much  more  bright  with  affection's  light 

And  love,  would  be  her  Life! 

XIX. 

"But  the  wild  emotion  that  yearns  for  the  ocean, 

Where  Man  contends  with  Might, 
And  the  false  ambition  that  seeks  attrition 

With  him,  iu  fields  where  the  fight 
GiH's  on  of  parties,  whose  frcfpieut  ai"t  is 

Deception,  aud  theft,  and  fraud. 
Bring  roughly  down  the  beautiful  Crown 

Of  Peace  she  wears  from  God  ! 
13 


1  IC 


Lif<     I'irtKrr.o 


XX. 

"  AVitli  all  this  iiot  so,  she  can  sweetly  iro 
<  >ii  luT  missiiiii,-:  (if  Iluinr  Kiuli-avnr, 

AikI  Man's  heart  /iw^  out,  a.-*  she  niuvcd  alxjiit, 
'  Oh,  Wuiuau  is  Quecu  forever  I ' " 


•5  ^'"     |f<L-     '^ 


/v 


.  1 .  •.  »\ 

■•V 


/?<■'  -•V-'' 


Woman.  147 


552^0  man. 


I 


IN  ACKNOWLEDGMENT  OF  A  COPY  OF  "  LUCILE,"  PRESENTED 
BY  A  FKIEND. 

I. 

lu  the  highways  of  Life,  here  and  there,  now  and  then, 
Amid  muslin  call'd  ladies,  and  buckram  call'd  men, 
One  meets,  though  the  race  is  now  hardly  styled  human, 
A  man  that 's  a  man,  and  a  woman  that 's  woman. 
Such  scorn  not  to  drink  of  the  waters  of  truth, 
That  flow,  jiure  and  cool,  from  the  fountains  of  youth; 
Nor  reject,  for  roast  beef  and  i)lum-pudding,  the  meal 
Fitly  season'd  and  served  by  the  hand  of  Lucile. 

II. 

Lucile !  oh  thou  sweetest  of  self-immolators 

That  e'er  walk'd  the  walks  of  the  world  in  French  gaiters; 

Thou  purest  of  Sisters,  and  bravest  of  Nuns, 

Thou  should'st  have  borne  daughters — thou  should'st  have 

left  sons  : 
But  failing  of  these — perhaps  Life's  lesser  part — 
Thou  still  hast  left  offspring  that  sprang  from  thy  heart, 
Having  just  enough  falsehood  truth's  force  to  reveal, 
And  just  enough  art  art's  device  to  conceal. 


148  Life  Pictiirr.-<. 

III. 
It  is  tnio — is  it  not? — that  tlic  ImIh^'s  wo  know 
A.s  the  iK'in^'s  of  niin<l,  are  the  hein;.'.<  that  flow 
From  nearer  the  sources  of  trial  antl  truth, 
liiiiM  iitarer  tlie  liniiitains  <it'  treshness  anil  youth, 
Than  the  heinirs  of  niuslin  aiul  luiekrani  we  nu'ct 
In  the  gilded  saloon,  or  tlie  church,  or  the  street. 
The  alenihic  of  Genius  from  which  they  proceed, — 
I'roin  the  sickness  and  .-in  of  humanity  freed, 
From  the  <rloss  of  its  crinu',  and  the  grime  of  its  crrnr, 
I'^-om  its  frenzy,  it  fume,  its  despair,  and  its  terror, — 
(Jives  existence  to  purer  and  loftier  lives 
Than  arc  hunic  tu  must  husbands  l>y  most  of  tluir  wives. 

IV. 

Then  liail  to  TiUcilc  I  contemplate  her  I   hwik  at  lu-r  I 
And  liail  to  the  powcr  that  (•oiiceivcd  lu-r — hepit  her — 
Took  her  out  from  fair  Paris — from  Uaden  —  anou 
Huilt  her  chalet  llir  up  the  slopi's  of  Serclu>n — 
Kill'd  her  sweet  I'yes  with  flow' if*  and  her  pure  heart  with 

chiiMi  - 
I'tmui  the  liird  and  the  lirook.  and  the  hee  and  (he  limes- 
Hade  the  tliuuih  rs  to  speak,  and  llie  cataracts  roll 
Their  grand  diapason  through  the  depths  of  her  .<oul — 
(Jave  a  voice  to  the  pinnacled  solitudes  there, 
That  was  just  less  than  wor-hip.aml  ju>l  more  than  prayer- 


Woman.  149 

To  the  palldi"  of  age  brought  the  rose-bloom  of  youth, 
Clothed  the  passion  of  Love  Avith  the  fashion  of  Truth — 
In  the  man  of  the  world  found  and  unmask'd  the  true  man, 
Through  the  mind  and  the  might  of  the  self-sustain'd  wo- 
man— 
Set  a  spirit  afloat  on  the  wave,  on  the  breeze, 
And  a  living  soul  gave  to  the  lone  Pyrenees. 

V. 

Ah,  Lueile — Alfred  Vargrave — Eugene  do  Luvois — 

If  well  "put  on  the  stage,"  what  "large  houses"  you'd 

draw  ! 
But  as  given  to  the  page  of  Life's  prophet,  the  Poet, 
You  draw  better  still,  and  the  "  trade  sales"  all  show  it. 
From  which  I  conclude, — as  I'm  certain  I  niay, — 
That  the  world  has  still  some  men  and  women  who  pay 
Willing  tribute  to  all  that  ennobles  the  race, 
And  due  liomage  to  woman  whene'er  slie  displays 
The  uplifting  emotions,  the  purposes  high. 
The  unchanging  resolve  or  to  do  or  to  die 
For  the  truth  of  the  tongue,  and  tlie  faith  of  the  heart. 
Which  we  feel  were  Lucile's — which  Lueile  could  impart. 

VI. 

"  Woman's  strength  is  her  weakness,"  men  often  declare: 
Just  as  much — and   no   more — Samson's  strength  was  his 
hair. 


150  Life  Pictures. 

"NVoman'.s  strcn^'tli  is  la-r  virtiu' — lur  will — liir  (K->irc 

V><r  UKiii  as  lur  Lonl.     Not  as  somctliiiig  that's  higlicr, 

But  i^tningiT;  a.s  8<tiiu'tliiiig  to  which  t^\\c  was  t^vul, 

To  be  buiic  of  his  houo,  and,  in  full  complement, 

To  Ikj  flesh  of  his  fli-sh.     The  olil  Edenal  story, 

In  making  which  true  is  lur  pritle — is  her  glory ; 

For  making  which  true  she  has  longing?.     Her  life. 

Left  at  least  incomplete  without  l)eing  a  wife. 

Ami  a  mother,  looks  lovingly  forward  to  these 

High  and  lioly  accomplishments,  just  as  the  trees 

And  the  vines  that  bear  fruit,  forward  h>ok  for  the  wall 

Which  the  latter  must  lean  on  aiul  cling  to,  and  all 

The  soft  rains  and  warm  winds  and  bright  sunshines  that 

bring 
In  llu-ir  train  the  lull  beauty  that's  born  of  the  spring; 
With  the  l)ud  and  tiu-  i»lonn>  of  tlu'  former,  tliat  -li'>.it. 
And  fructify  s(M)n,  an*l  accitmplish  the  fruit. 

VII. 
Woman's  strength  is.  lur  \irlue — her  will — lu-r  desire: 
Man's  weakness  is,  not  to  Iw  inllueiu'ed  by  her 
High  hojK's,  patiiiil  waitings,  lung  lai)<>rs  for  giMxl 
Ft»r  herself  aixl  f'>r  all,  half  as  much  as  ht>  sluudd. 
Look  at  Alfred  Vargrave — at  I^igene  <le  Luvois ! 
How  keeidy  slu>  felt,  and  how  clearly  she  sa»v, 
— Sill-,  the  woman  Lucih — wliile  jM-rliaps  all  were  .-inning, 
All  three.  !ii:ainst  fnrluiu'  or  faU'.  the  beL'inning 


I 


Woman.  151 

Of  troubles  -whose  path  would  be  strewn  with  the  wrecks 
Of  love  and  of  hope — irremovable  checks 
To  all  present  designs,  or  desires — every-where, 
In  its  course,  folly,  frenzy,  defeat  and  despair. 
She,  the  woman  Lucile,  saw  it  soon — saw  it  all — 
Knew  the  lightning  would  flash,  and  the  thunder-bolt  fall- 
Felt  the  shallows — the  reef — heard  the  roar — saw  the  rock — 
Gave  Avarning  again  and  again :  but  the  shock 
Came  the  same ;  and  tlic  dark  and  the  desolate  shore. 
And  the  paths  that  led  to  it,  and  the  water  that  bore 
For  a  time  the  frail  barges  of  love  and  of  hope, 
That  so  recklessly  sail'd  up  the  hyaline  cope, 
AVere  strewn  with  the  wrecks  she  had  dreaded,  foreknown, 
And  foreseen,  and  foretold  of.     All  light  was  her  own, 
All  prudence,  all  warning,  all  wisdom,  all  kindness: 
But  against  her  were  passion — fatuity — blindness — 
That  knew  not,  that  saw  not,  that  heard  not,  that  reck'd  not! 
And  who,  like  to  them,  just  such  fate  may  expect  not? 

VIII. 

Woman's  strength  is  her  virtue — her  will — her  desire — ■ 

That  exalt  her,  sustain  her,  forbid  her  to  tire. 

The  priestess  of  Nature,  interpreting  God, 

She  is  like  much  that  Nature  spreads  grandlv  abroad. 

Yet  she 's  not  the  strong  river  that  flows  to  the  sea ; 

Nor  the  wild  waste  of  waves  that  engulph  it,  is  she ; 


IVi  Llji    ridiiirif. 

But  the  vine  that  clink's  dost'  to  thr  luisl>an<liiig:  wall. 
Having  faith  it  will  imt  !»«•  jHrmittcd  to  fall — 
Neither  it  nor  its  fruit.     JSIu-'s  the  an;jrel  that  briiiir:* 
Down  the  jewels  of  heav'n  to  the  crownd  of  earth's  Kini??. 
ThoiiL'h  iniheeded  so  oft,  she's  the  voiee  that  to  man 
Speaks  as  imt  e'm  the  voi<'e  of"  an  archangel  can. 

IX. 
Woman's  strentrth  is  her  virtue — lur  will — her  «U'sire 
I^-ra  loVf  that  is  i)ur('r — a  life  that  is  hiL'luT — 
.\  truth  that  i.s  surer  — a  faith  that  is  stronjier — 
A  hn|)e  that  is  brighter — a  charity  longer, 
An<l  broader,  ami  deeper,  and  oh!   much  bcnigner: 
With  an  impulse  that  ever  im-ites  her  to  twiuf  her 
White  arms  and  sweet  purpos<'S  nnnid  what  is  pure, 
.\nil  .'^en'ue,  and  iniselfish,  and  sinless  and  sure. 
What  the  rose  to  the  garden,  the  leaf  to  the  tree, 
.\iiil  the  grass  to  the  plains,  to  man's  mansion  is  she. 
Like  till-  sini  to  ihe  earth-  like  the  stars  to  the  skies — 
She's  the  warmtli  of  his  love,  and  the  light  of  his  eye.«». 
But  she's  more  than  ail  this:  she's  companion,  friend,  wife — 
Without  whom  man  might  Vwv. 

But — would  living  Ik>  Life?    / 


The  Maniac.  153 


Vt\\z  Jidanfac. 


I. 

"Who  walks  by  yon  thicket  of  hazel  and  thorn, 
Her  hair  all  disheveled,  her  looks  all  forlorn?" 
"  'Tis  Mary,  the  Maniac — harmless,  though  wild — 
Her  constant  companion  yon  flow'r-seeking  child." 
"And  what  is  her  story?     I  pray  you  relate." 
'"Tis  simple — and  many  are  doomed  to  her  fate, 
Or  worse,  for  from  self  shrinks  the  bosom  that  errs. 
But  oblivion  of  thought  is  eternally  hers. 

n. 

"  Few  words  will  suffice  to  rehearse  you  her  talc. — 
Once  Mary  was  fairest  of  all  in  our  vale ; 
And  the  bloom  on  her  cheek,  and  the  glance  of  her  eye, 
Shamed  the  flow'rs  of  the  earth,  and  the  stars  of  tlie  sky. 
But  there  came  to  our  vale,  from  the  sunny  South-West, 
A  youth  Avho  beheld  her,  and  fondly  address'd. 
He  wooed  her,  he  said,  as  a  fair  forest  flower, 
Which  he  long'd  to  transplant  to  his  far-away  bower. 

HI. 

"He  wooed  her  with  looks  and  with  promises  dear; 
He  wooed  her  with  words  the  most  houeved  to  hear; 


154  Life  Pictures. 

He  wooed  her  in  gladness,  lie  wooed  lur  in  tiiii-s, 
And  omploy'd  each  exix'dient  to  quiet  her  fears, 
lie  call'd  her  the  star  of  his  heing,  whose  ray 
Could  alone  gild  the  gloom  of  life's  perilous  way  ; 

He  callM  her  the  sun  of  his  sjtirit,  whoso  liglit 

Cciuld  aliiiic  win  him  hack  in  (in  duuht's  wiMcring  night. 

IV. 

"  Tic  call'd  licr  his  idol,  his  glory — the  slirino 
"Wiu  re  he  knelt  with  a  worship  was  all  hut  divine; 
He  call'd  her, — for  words  to  his  false  lips  came  free. — 
All  man  could  e'er  covet,  or  woman  e'er  he. 
Touch'd,  conquer'd,  she  rais'd  up  the  low-kneeling  youth, 
For  she  knew  not  that  falsehotnl  is  smoother  than  trutli; 
And  his  words  on  her  ear  like  a  melody  fell, 
Till  her  spirit  was  hound  in  a  w  ildering  sik-U. 

V. 

"She  listeu'd — and  gone  were  her  coyness  and  pride; 
She  loved — and  with  his  flowM  her  heart's  gushing  tide; 
And  at  once  si'cm'd  her  wlioh-  glail  existeni'e  to  l»o 
Lost  in  his,  as  a  river  is  lost  in  the  sea. 
From  that  njonxMit  her  life  was  a  tmnee  or  a  dream. 
And  as  tranijnilly  tlowM  as  some  meadow-nnirged  stream 
Whiili  i>  hdlM  witli  llic  hn-ath  of  .swei't  flow'rs.  and  the.'Jonj. 
(  »l"  hce  or  of  liird.  all  the  .-.iinuncr  dav  long. 


The  Maniac.  155 


VI. 

"But 't  was  like  that  same  stream,  had  one  wave  of  its  breast 
Been  defiled  at  the  fountain  to  poison  the  rest ; 
And  't  was  like  that  same  stream,  were  its  course  in  the  path 
Which  a  hurricane  soon  was  to  sweep  in  its  wrath. 
She  awoke  from  that  dream,  to  the  light  of  the  truth; 
But  in  ecstasy  still  clung  her  heart  to  that  youth ; 
For  to  him  all  her  love,  worship,  rapture,  was  giv'n — 
Her  world  now,  her  idol,  her  glory,  her  Heav'n ! 

VII. 

"Oft  they  stray'd  by  yon  thicket:  a  bird  carol'd  there 

A  song  that  sooth'd  Mary,  and  wiled  her  of  care ; 

And  still,  though  six  summers  have  journey'd  along, 

She  roves  to  that  thicket,  to  listen  its  song. 

But  I  wander: — Weeks  pass'd;  and  the  Frost  Sprite  came 

With  iris  like  colors,  all  fresh  from  the  sky; 

And  the  leaves, — in  one  clear,  starry  night,  all  was  done,— 

Gleam'd  scarlet  and  gold  in  the  sheen  of  the  sun. 

VIII. 

"Autumn  vanish'd;  chill  Winter's  approaches  were  heard; 
And  gone  was  the  song  of  that  caroling  bird. 
Which  so  long  had  enchanted  the  forest  and  glade; 
And  gone  was  the  Wooer  of  ]\Iary  the  IMaid. 


lo6  Life  Picture.*. 

lie  left  her  with  fear  aii<l  witli  tri)ul)Ie  o|)pre.«sM, 
To  seek  his  rich  home  in  the  sunny  Pouth-West, — 
Where,  he  toM  her,  lieVl  meet  with  their  wood-i'liorister, 
Whose  song  shoukl  aye  'mind  liim  of  first  love  ami  her. 

IX. 

"IIiM  a  mother. to  win  to  his  purjxtse,  he  .sii<l, 
And  a  fathi'r  to  soften  l)ef<ire  he  eould  wed; 
I'.ut  li( M  leave  ere  their  Itird  fmrn  the  South  should  l)e  flown, 
And  return  with  its  sj)ring-song  to  make  lier  his  own. 
The  winter  months  pass'd,  in  their  darkness  and  gloom; 
But  the  forest  tho'  hare,  and  the  flow'rs  in  their  tomh, 
Were  less  desolate  far  than  was  Mary's  ti>rii  breast, 
For  she  heard  not  one  word  iVoin  tlie  sunny  S)utij-Wcst. 

X. 

At  length,  where  the  Winter  King  ru,-h'd  in  his  wrath, 
Came  spring,  and  sweet  blossoms  sprang  up  in  her  ]>sith; 
Anil  the  leaf  started  out  from  each  biubbunlen'd  spray 
She  breath'il  on,  whih'  holding  hi-r  life-giving  way. 
Tlien  back  to  the  thieket  returtiM  that  fair  l>inl, 
Ami  again,  morn  :iiid  eve,  its  sweet  can>l  wasi  heard  ; 
But  the  wooer  of  Mary,  who  with  it  had  gone. 
Came  tu't  with  its  spring-s«^^)ng  to  make  her  his  own. 


The  Maniac.  157 


XI. 

"Daj  pass'd  after  day — week  on  week  journey'd  by — 

And  a  dark  sliade  was  gathering  on  ISIary's  blue  eye : 

Still  Hope,  sweet  deceiver !  supported  licr  frame, 

And  flatter'd  lier  heart,  though  he  hid  not  its  shame. 

But  the  Spring  pass'd  away  :  and  the  Summer's  breath  blew 

On  a  cheek  which  was  sunken,  and  jiallid  of  hue; 

And  a  desolate  bosom  in  loneliness  beat, 

Of  tempests  of  grief  and  self-torture  the  seat. 

XII. 

"Mary's  tongue  was  now  fill'd  with  her  false  Wooer's  name, 

But  the  poison-lipp'd  spoiler  anear  her  ne'er  came; 

And  she  sank,  for  her  grief  knew  nor  changing  nor  check, 

In  body  and  reason  a  ruin  and  wreck. 

She  rose  from  her  couch  with  an  eye  fierce  and  wild, 

But  gentle  whenever  it  turn'd  on  her  child  ; 

And  that  child  is  the  only  companion  she  hath. 

To  lighten  the  gloom  of  her  desolate  path. 

XIII. 

"All  else,  though  six  summers  have  journey'd  away 
Save  it,  and  the  warbler  of  life's  fairer  day. 
She  shuns;  but  to  listen  that  thicket-bird's  song. 
She  wanders  there  often,  and  loiters  there  long. 


158  L'lfc  rUturcs. 

Aud  sometimes  as  smldcn  as  thought  docs  she  start, 
AVith  fix'd  eyes,  and  check'd  brcathiug,  aud  thin  lips  ai>art, 
Aixl  looks  all  bewildered, — as  if  she  had  heard 
A  tone  of  the  Past  in  the  song  of  that  bird. 

XIV. 
"But  the  spell  pa.-xs  ull'  with  a  word  iVoni  her  cliild, 
And  she  looks  on  it  kindly,  a  moment  though  wild: 
Then  it  leads  the  poor  ^laniac^  home  oVr  the  vale, — 
As  now. — And  such,  stranger,  is  Clary's  sad  tale." 
"  A  curse  on  the  Spoikr !  "  I  muttered.     "  Oh,  heaven! 
Can  Iw.  go  unscourg'd  while  his  victim's  thus  riven? 
No!  Passion's  fierce  temj>ests  must  r.iL'^c  in  his  bnast, 
And  his  heart  find  a  lull  in  its  .^uiuiy  South-Wi'st !  " 

W. 
Oh  Woman — dear  AVoiuaii !   how  often  iK'tmy'd 
By  the  blaudishmeuts  sweet  that  w.in  Mury  the  Maid! 
IIow  often,  too  yielding!  led  on  to  j)repare, 
By  one  moment  of  rapture,  an  age  of  despair  ! 
Beware!   fur  tiio  tones  the  most  fervid  and  sweet, 
Are  oil  but  tlie  mask  of  the  dee |Hvst  deceit, — 
As  oil  the  wild  llowers  that  lure  with  their  breath, 
Conceal  the  euil'd  s.rpeiil,  \\]i..<e  v.iiom  i«i  death  ! 


Mabelle  GokUng.  159 


iHabeUr  CJoItifufl. 


"  Maple  Golden,"  the  servants  called  her:  \ 

She  was  the  wildest,  merriest  thing,  < 

That  ever  rambled  the  woodlands  over  ' 

1 
To  search  for  flowers  in  the  early  Spring.  j 

The  March-rime,  even,  did  not  escape  her ;  i 

And  when  the  April  violets  came,  1 

Her  eyes  were  filled  with  the  hues  of  heaven,  1 
And  her  cheeks  with  roses  were  aflame. 

"  Maple  Golden 's  come  back,  Missus! 

It's  just  three  years  since  she  went  away. 
No  longer  a  girl,  she  is  now  a  woman. 

And  her  beautiful  hair  is  streak'd  with  gray. 
But  she 's  changed  so.  Missus  !     You  'd  hardly  know  her, 

She  looks  so  weary,  and  seems  so  sad — 
She  that  was  never  down  in  spirits. 

She  that  was  always  fresh  and  glad. 

"  The  matter  ?     I  did  n't  hear  'bout  the  matter  ; 
I  saw  her  only  a  little  while. 
Just  as  she  left  the  car  at  the  Station  ; 

And  I  should  n't  have  known  her  but  for  her  smile  ; 


160  Life  Piduref. 

That  i.s,  at  first  I  should  n't  have  known  her, 
And  did  n't — but  wlicii  I  liM)kc>d  agon, 

And  saw  her  fondle  and  kiss  the  children, 
I  'd  a-known  her  ainonir  a  thousand  then  ! 

"  At  fii-st  she  stood  like  the  niaiMe  statue 

I  saw  at  Muldoon's  the  other  day  ; 
Then  the  smile  that  all  of  us  used  tti  love  so, 

Across  her  features  l)efjan  to  play  ; 
And  then,  for  just  a  niomcnt,  she  buried 

Her  face  in  her  hands,  and  press'd  her  eyes, — 
(They  are  not  the  same,  ])ut  the  stars  are  in  them, 

As  they  used  to  be,  and  the  blue  of  the  skies,) — 

"  Ami  half-look'd  into  the  ijrouj)  of  children 

That  stood  but  a  little  way  from  her. 
All  of  them  wantini;  to  rush  uj»  to  her, 

liut  each  atraid  to  be  liist  to  stir  ; 
And  then  she  look'd  them  full  in  their  faces, 

Ami  cau^rht  them  up  to  her,  one  by  one, 
And  kissM  them  antl  pressM  them  up  to  her  bosom, 

Ami  iiami'd  thriu     all  but  little  Nun: 

"  Nun,  you  know,  has  come  among  ns 
Since  that  ti'rrible,  awfid  day, 
Wlun,  ill  the  storm  wc  all  nnicmbcr. 
Maple  CJ.ilden  wandered  away — 


Mahclle  Goldhig.  161 

Waudered  away,  no  one  kuew  whither, 
And  only  a  fev/  have  ever  guess'd  why ; 

And  none  have  become  a  whit  the  Aviser, 
In  all  the  time  that  has  since  gone  by. 

"  /know,  Missus!  and  al'ys  did  know, 

For  I  was  wliere  I  could  hear  and  see ; 
But  I  've  been  good  to  Maple  Golden," 

She  sigh'd,  "  for  Maple  was  good  to  me. 
And  I  have  kept  my  own  good  counsel, 

And  mean  to  keep  it  as  long  as  I  live : 
Many  have  ask'd  me  to  give  them  a  hint  just, 

But  I  've  no  hint  that  I  '11  ever  give." 

*'  Wont  you  tell  me  now,  Phillis  ?  me  just  ? 
8()on  your  secret  '11  all  be  out. 
When  and  where  and  how  did  it  happen  ? 
What  and  with  whom  was  it  all  about  ?" 
"  No — I  '11  never  tell  on  INIaple — 
Maple '11  never  tell  on  me : 
To  such  as  I  am  it 's  little  difference — 

It 's  all,  though,"  she  sighed,  "  to  such  as  she !" 

"  Please  don't  ask  me  again,  dear  Missus. 
Mai)lc's  wells  of  sorrow  are  dry; 
I  judge  by  her  looks,  and  by  her  movements, 
But  more  than  all  by  her  burning  eye. 


162  Lifr  Pirturrs. 

« 

Yi't  were  this  not  ho,  Maple  should  never 
Iliive  cause  from  nie  one  wonl  to  tear. 

I  wish  she  could  weip,  iiut  she  sliall  not  ever 
For  fault  of  mine  shed  a  sinj,de  tear." 

•'  Will,  Phillis— when  you  left  the  Station, 

What" — "  Missus,  here  eoni(\s  Massa  John. 
When  /  turn'd  away  from  Maple  (Jolden, 

He  stood  near,  looking  sa<lly  on. 
May-he  lir  i-an  tell  you  soniethini;,  Mi.s.sus — 

Something  I  niiss'd  cause  I  did  n't  slay. 
Ma.ss  John  I   ijnii  saw  poor  Maple  (iolden, 

Ami  was  looking  on  when  I  canu-  away." 

"  Wrll,  J..hii— I  can't  ;:(■!  much  out  of  Thillis— 

i/'/.»'  Maple,  sure  enoULrh,  cojue  hack  ?" 
"  Yes — the  poor  thini,'  waiulered  hitlicr,  somehow. 
Hut  lias  iToiu-  auMin,  on  a  darker  track. 
Thinirs  </(»  happen  so  strangi'ly,  .sometimes! 
Her  father  hail  heeii   for  a  wci'k  in  town, 
And  return'd  on  the  up-train  half  an  hoin- 
After  .she  tui   the  other  train  came  down. 

'"  T  ."^jiw  her  standing  ami  gazing  wildly 
At  little  Nun,  till  she  s|)ict|  a  cliaruj. 
Which  seem'd  almost  ti>  eh'ctrily  her, 
\U   Nature  li\"d  on  Nun's  ri'dil  nnu. 


Mahelle  Goldhuj.  163 

At  this  she  caught  the  child  to  her  bosom, 

And  gave  it  many  a  sweet  embrace, 
Snioothiug  its  hair  witli  her  tremlJiug  fingers, 

And  phmtiug  kisses  all  over  its  face. 

"  The  upward  train  then  stopp'd  at  the  Station, 

Near  where  Mabelle  stood  with  the  child  ; 
And  her  father  stepp'd  from  the  car  to  the  platform. 

And  bow'd  to  a  friend  or  two,  and  smiled; 
When,  all  of  a  sudden,  Mabelle  toward  him 

With  open  arms  and  a  wild  look  sprang, 
And  for  an  instant  a  shriek  came  from  her, 

With  which  the  air  all  about  us  rang. 

"  He  caught  her  tenderly,  and  drew  her 

Beautiful  form  up  to  his  own, 
And  kindly  and  lovingly  address'd  her, 

But  she  answer'd  with  only  a  dying  moan. 
She  was  borne  then  gently  into  the  Station, 

And  laid  for  a  little  while  on  a  bed  ; 
But  ere  I  left" "  Oh  God!"  cried  Phyllis, 

"And  is  poor  Maple  Golden  dead?" 

"  Dead  ere  T  left."     "  Poor  Maple  Golden  !" 
Sobb'd  Phillis ;  "  I  know  her  story  Avell ; 
'T  is  a  tale  of  guilt,  and  a  tale  of  sorrow, 
But  a  tale  that  Phillis  can  never  tell. 


164 


Life  Pictures. 


Masis  J" 


•All.  I'liillis!    /  know  that  -Jtorv, 


Ami  I  kiiDWof  iiin'  whose  rolx'S  an-  white 
As  lie  miivi's  on  earth,  hut  \Yhoso  soul  is  hiaeker 
Thau  the  hlackest  shades  of  the  darkest  night. 

"  T  is  the  old,  old  story,  of  woman's  weakness, 

And  of  the  perfidy  of  man  I  — 
(io,  IMiyllis,  at  once,  to  Mal>elle's  parents, 

And  offer  to  do  whatever  you  ean. 
Sav  nothinLT  of  what  you  do  or  ditit't  know; 

Ilflp  lay  that  hlitrhted  flow'r  in  the  earth; 
And  all  who  kn(»w  of  Mahelle's  Temptation, 

Will  pray  for  her  second  and  better  birth." 


--^ 


Over  ''Tlie  Bridge  of  Sighs."  165 


iB'otv  *'nie  miXiQc  of  Sfflfts.' 


"  Over  '  the  Bridge  of  Sighs/ 
Into  tlie  land  that  lies 
Under  the  brightening  skies 

That  glow  with  the  coming  day — 
That  is  where  I  would  go, 
Out  of  this  land  of  woe, 
Whose  evil  I  see  and  know. 

It  is  far,  ah  !  far  away, 

That  land  of  beauty  and  light ; 

But  I  feel  in  my  spirit  the  might 

That,  cheered  by  its  gladdening  smiles, 

Can  compass  the  weary  miles  : 

So,  over  the  Bridge  I  go. 

Bring  it  weal  now,  or  bring  it  woe !" 

She  said.     And  her  voice  grew  loud, 

And  her  step  grew  firm,  and  proud 

Her  bearing,  and  keen  her  look. 

As  her  self-will'd  way  she  took  ; 

And,  giving  but  one  glance  back 

On  the  long  and  weary  track, 

She  pass'd  the  Bridge,  and  in  pride 

Stood  erect  on  the  chosen  side. 


166  Life  Pidiiren. 

"  Now  out  from  the  Bridge  of  Sighs 

Into  the  land  of  Hoik*, 
"NVitli  l)riu'htcuin<,'  heart  and  eyes, 

Ami  a  clearer  huro.seoj)c  !" 
(She  said.     And  into  the  land 

Of  llnjH',  witli  a  (jiiiekenint;  jwiee, 
»She  went — and  she  took  her  s^tand 

In  a  sunny  and  flowery  place : 
A  place  that  forever  was  bright, 
In  the  morn  or  the  noon  or  the  night, 
With  the  golden  and  silvery  light 

Tiiat  streams  from  the  stui*s  and  the  sun : 
A  place  that  forever  Avas  sweet 
With  the  breath  of  the  (low'rs  at  her  \Wi 

That  bloom'd,  and  adown  by  the  run  : 
And  she  walk'd  through  the  days  and  tht-  h-ur- 
Of  months,  by  the  light  and  the  flowers ; 

But  IIoj)e  she  then  fnuiid  was  u  cheat — 

Bewildering  her  mind,  and  her  feet 
Misleading,  till  day  after  day 
She  threaded  the  same  weary  way, 

Coming  back  with  thr  shadows  of  night 

To  the  place  she  had  1.  ft  witli  the  light, 

*'  And  now,  from  the  land  of  1Io|h», 
I  go  to  tilt-  land  of  Heeds: 
Wlioc'iT  with  the  world  would  co|v, 


Over  ''The  Bridge  of  Sighs."  167 

Must  lean  not  on  broken  reeds  !" 
She  said.     And  she  fix'd  her  eye 
On  a  beautiful  cloud  in  the  sky  ; 

But  that  cloud  soon  moved  away, 

And  was  lost  ere  the  close  of  the  day. 
Then  from  the  horizon  afar 
Rose  a  bright  and  a  beautiful  star  : 

"  By  that  I  can  travel  j-ight  on  !" 

She  said— and  she  started.  Anon 
It  had  changed  so  its  place  in  the  sky, 
That  she  murmur'd,  Avith  tears  and  a  sigh, 

"  If  I  follow  much  farther  its  track. 

Whence  I  started  I  soon  shall  be  back." 
In  the  morning  she  fix'd  her  bright  eyes 
On  the  sun  as  it  rose,  and  the  skies 

That  were  gleaming  with  purple  and  gold 

As  the  cloudlets  away  from  it  roll'd. 
And  with  confidence  now  she  began 
Every  object  around  her  to  scan. 

But  the  sun,  like  the  star  and  the  cloud. 

Proved  a  foil  to  her  hope — and  she  bowed 
Her  head  for  a  moment,  then  gazed 
At  a  tall  0110"  before  her  that  blazed 

In  the  light  of  the  moon,  and  blazed  on 

Till  the  beams  it  reflected  were  g(me. 


168  Life  Picturei. 

That  landmark  went  into  lior  dreams, 

Through  the  long  and  the  wearisome  night, 
With  its  hfiglit  and  its  jitrength  and  its  In-anis, 

And  the  shimmering  shef'n  <.f'  its  light; 
And  when  the  sun  rose  the  next  day, 
It  eaught  anil  threw  l»aek  his  fir.-l  niy. 

Then,  proufUy  uplifting  her  head, 

She  gazed  at  it  calmly,  and  said  : 
"  Agsiin  I  shall  fix  not  my  eyes, 

For  guidance  by  night  or  hy  day, 
r)n  what  moves  in  the  air  and  tlie  skies  ; 

But  hy  <d)jects  that  rise  far  away 
On  the  earth,  and  l»y  objects  anear. 
Will  1  iiH:i>ure  my  di-tancc,  and  >tter; 

And  for  that  whieli  is  righteous  and  just, 

I  will  phu'o  my  full  faith  and  my  trust 
In  a  region  of  beauty  that  lies 
Far  Iwyond  tlu-  thin  air  and  the  skies  I" 

And  she  did  so  ;   and  thenei>  movt-d  in  pride, 
Life's  highways  and  byways  along — 

Faith  and  Works  being  ever  her  guitle, 
Tni>t  and  Triumph  her  j)rayer  and  her  .-ong  ; 

And,  o'ereoming  earth's  trials  aud  strife, 

She  iivit  in  the  Battle  of  Life. 


Song  of  "Tlie  Knitting  Girl"  169 


Sons  of  "SThc  mntttfnfl  (GlvV* 


I 


Late  in  the  quiet  night, 

By  the  warm  coal-fire  I  sit, 
My  hand  and  my  heart  both  light, 

And  I  knit — I  knit — I  knit. 
And  sometimes  I  interweave 
A  thought  over  which  I  grieve ; 
And  then  comes  a  gentle  gleam 
Of  a  beautiful  light,  and  I  dream — 
I  dream  of  a  time  to  come. 
But  my  voice  and  my  li2)s  are  dumb — 
And  I  think  of  a  time  now  gone, 
And  a  walk  on  the  terraced  lawn — 
But  all  these  soon  disappear, 
"With  a  smile,  or  a  sigh,  or  a  tear, 
And,  joyous  or  sad  or  oppress'd. 
With  the  midnight  I  slumber  and  rest. 

The  shadows  soon  upward  roll, 

— Both  night's  and  mine, — and  the  day 
Comes  down  with  its  open  scroll, 

Which  I  read  as  it  glides  away : 
'T  is  the  same  I  have  read  before, 


170 


Life  Pictures. 


iJiil  I  ponder  it  <Mr  ninl  ciVr — 
"1"  is  the  Kline  I  shall  n-ad  again, 
In  surrow,  or  jny,  or  ];aiii, 
As  the  labor  oi"  life  goe.s  on — 
But  the  goal  will  at  la^t  Imj  won ; 
Ami  I  wait,  n.s  it  comes  more  near, 
AVith  a  smile,  or  a  sigh,  or  a  tear, 
Now  working,  and  now  at  i»lay. 
Never  doubtin;^  the  Better  Day : 
St)  here  by  the  fire  I  sit. 
And  I  knit  — I  knit — I  knit. 


^?::^ 


•'f!5^^^^  r'^.^^\^%^^f4 


The  West. 

A  Hymn  of  the  Day  that  is 

Dawning. 
Truth  and  Freedom. 
Conservatism. 
The  Laborer. 
Radicalos. 
The  Artisan. 
The  New  Age. 
All  Things  Free. 
Be  Firm— Be  True. 
Spring  Verses. 
To  an  Early  Spring  Flower. 
Dandelions. 
May. 
The  Cardinal  Bird. 


A  Summer  Scene. 

The  Mountain  Paths. 

A  Harvest  Hymn. 

August. 

Happiness— A  Picture. 

An  Autumn  Afternoon. 

To  a  Late  Fall  Flower. 

The  Wreck  at  Sea. 

To  my  Mother. 

The  Bridal. 

Barley-Bree. 

The  Revelers. 

The  Invalid. 

A  Wonderful  Story. 

Thirty-five. 


(171) 


JJrorm. 

God's  holy  nngcis,  •when  the  Earth  •was  new, 

Ere  yet  green  phiiit  or  golden  grain  hud  birth, 
O'er  the  warm  slopes  and  sunny  valleys  threw 

The  germs  of  vegetation ;  and  the  earth, 
As  lapsed  the  seasons  of  the  primal  year. 

Grew  fair  and  fruitful — ycilding,  fur  all  time, 
Tlie  sustenance  of  Life — afar  and  lu-ar, 

On  every  eontinent,  in  every  rlime. 
No  quick  return  whs  piirt  of  this  great  plan : 
IJut  thus  the  seed  was  sown  for  all  the  Years  of  Man. 

And,  by  this  high  and  bright  example  taught, 

"Would  I  thus  labor  in  my  lowly  way — 
Sowing  the  broad  and  shining  Holds  of  Thought 

"With  seed  that  shall  spriiii;  up  through  many  ii  day  : 
Not  seeking  quick  returns,  in  wealth  or  fame; 

Not  darkenin<j  <'ounsel  with  immeaning  words, 
Nor  da/./.ling  with  a  phosphorescent  flamo — 

Hut  with  a  voice  as  cheerful  as  a  birds. 
And  with  a  hand  and  heart  unaw'd  by  strife. 
Singing  and  sowing  seed  fur  uU  tbo  Years  of  Lifu. 


Tlie  Wed.  173 


K\\t  W§tsU 


I. 

Land  of  the  "West — green  Forest-Land ! 

Clime  of  the  fair,  and  the  immense ! 
Favorite  of  Nature's  liberal  hand, 

And  child  of  her  munificence ! 

Fill'd  -with  a  rajiture  warm,  intense, 
High  on  a  cloud-girt  hill  I  stand. 

And  with  clear  vision  gazing  thence, 
Thy  glories  round  me  far  expand : 

Rivers,  whose  likeness  earth  has  not, 
And  lakes,  that  elsewhere  seas  would  be, — 

Whose  shores  the  countless  wild  herds  dot. 
Fleet  as  the  winds,  and  all  as  free  ; 

Mountains  that  pierce  the  bendiug  sky. 
And  with  the  storm-clouds  Avarfare  wage, — 

Shooting  their  glittering  peaks  on  high. 
To  mock  the  fierce  red  lightning's  rage  ; 

Arcadian  vales  with  vine-hung  bow'rs, 
And  grassy  nooks,  'neath  beechen  shade, 

Wliere  dance  the  never  resting  Hours, 
To  music  of  the  bright  cascade ; 

Skies  softly  beautiful,  and  blue 


174  MiicrUitncom. 

As  Italy's,  with  stars  as  l)ri<.'lit  ; 

Flow'rs  rich  as  nn>rirmfr'f<  t»uii-ri>»^  hue, 
And  gorgeous  as  the  gcraiu'd  iui<hiight. 
Land  of  the  West — green  Forest-Land  ! 
Thus  hath  Creation's  l^ounteous  hand, 
Upon  thine  arnidc  bosom  flung 
Charms  such  as  were  her  gift  when  the  gray  worM   was 
young. 

n. 

Land  of  the  We?t! — where  nought  is  ohl, 

Or  fading,  but  tradition  huary, — 
Thy  long  neglected  annals  hohl 

Of  many  a  daring  deed  the  story ! 
Man's  luiglit  of  arm  hath  lure  Inm  tried. 

And  Woman's  glorious  strength  of  soul — 
When  war's  fierce  shout  rang  far  and  wide, 

When  vengeful  foes  at  mitlnight  stole 
On  shnnhering  innocence,  and  gave 

Kttr  onset-shout,  nor  warning  word, 

Nor  nature's  strong  a|)iH'alings  heard 
From  woman's  lips,  to  "s|Mire  and  save 

Her  unsuspecting  little  oiu'. 

Her  only  child — her  son  !  her  son  I" 
rnheanl  the  supplicating  tone, 
Whieh  cuds  in  nuw  a  shriek,  and  now  a  deep  death-groau! 


The  Wed.  175 

ni. 

Land  of  the  West! — green  Forest-Land! 

Thine  early  day  for  deeds  is  famed 
Which  in  historic  page  shall  stand 

Till  bravery  is  no  longer  named. 
Thine  early  day! — it  nursed  a  band 

Of  men  who  ne'er  their  lineage  shamed; 
The  iron-nerved,  the  bravely  good, 
Who  neither  spared  nor  lavish'd  blood — 

Aye  ready,  morn,  or  night,  or  noon  ; 
Fleet  in  the  race,  firm  in  the  field, 
Their  sinewy  arms  their  only  shield — 
Courage  to  Death  alone  to  yield : 

The  men  of  Daniel  Boone  ! 
Their  dwelling  j^lace — the  "good  green  wood," 

Their  favorite  haunts — the  lone  arcade, 
The  murmuring  and  majestic  flood. 

The  deep  and  solemn  shade : 
Where  came  to  them  the  AVord  of  God, 
When  Storm  and  Darkness  Avere  abroad, 

Breath'd  in  the  thunder's  voice  aloud, 

And  writ  in  lightnin<!;  on  the  cloud. 
And  thus  they  lived :  the  dead  leaves  oft, 

Heap'd  by  the  playful  winds,  their  bed ; 
Nor  ask'd  they  couch  more  warm  or  soft, 

Nor  pillow  for  the  head, 
Other  than  fitting  root  or  stone, 


176  Miiicellaneoxts. 

With  the  scant  woml-moss  overcrrown. 
Heroic  huud  I — But  they  have  j)a?.-iM 
As  jMis-s  the  stars  at  rise  of  sun, — 
Meltiug  iuto  tlie  ocean  vast 

Of  Time,  and  sinking,  one  by  one  ; 
Yet  lingering  here  and  there  a  few, 
A.S  if  to  take  a  la,st,  long  view, 
Of  the  domain  they  won  in  strife 
With  foes  who  battled  to  the  knife. 
Peace  be  to  those  who  sleep  l)eneath  us ! 
All  honor  to  the  few  that  yet  do  linger  with  us! 

IV. 

Land  of  tin-  Wost  I — tliiiii^  early  prime 

Fades  in  the  flight  of  hurrying  Time  ; 

Thy  noble  forests  fall,  a.s  sweep 

Europa's  myriads  t»Vr  the  Deep; 

And  thy  broad  plains,  with  welcome  warm. 

Receive  the  onward-pressing  swarm  : 

On  mountain  height,  in  lowly  vale, 

Hy  (piiit  lake,  or  gliding  river, — 
Will  revcr  sweeps  the  chainless  gale. 

Onward  sweep  they  forever. 
Oh,  may  they  come  with  hearts  tliat  ne'er 
Can  Und  a  tynmt's  chain  to  wear ; 
With  souls  that  would  indignant  turn. 
Ami  |>n>ii(|  opjires^ion's  minion-i  spurn  ; 


TJie  Wed.                                   177  \ 

"Witli  nerves  of  steel,  and  words  of  flame,  \ 

To  strike  and  sear  the  wretcli  who'd  bring  our  land  to  ; 

shame !  \ 

V.  I 

i 

Laud  of  the  West ! — beneath  the  Heaven  i 

There 's  not  a  fairer,  lovelier  clime ;  j 

Nor  one  to  which  was  ever  given  \ 

A  destiny  more  high,  sublime.  j 

From  Alleghany's  base  to  where  ; 

Our  Western  Andes  prop  the  sky —  • 

The  home  of  Freedom's  hearts  is  there,  I 

And  o'er  it  Freedom's  eagles  fly.  j 

And  here, — should  e'er  Columbia's  land  j 

Be  rent  with  fierce  intestine  feud, —  i 

Shall  Freedom's  latest  cohorts  stand,  ; 

Till  Freedom's  eagles  sink  in  blood. 
And  quench'd  are  all  the  stars  that  now  her  banners  stud. 


^-^ 


178  Miicdlaneoui, 


^  JbMwwx  of  the  Daij  tlint  (s  Da\unhia. 


If  the  promisee  of  the  Present 

Be  not  a  hollow  cheat, 
It"  true-hearted  men  ami  women 

I'rove  faithful  ami  (lis<'reet, 
If  none  falter  who  are  hopinjj 

And  contending  for  the  Right, 
'riitri  a  lime  is  surely  ctimiiiir, 

As  a  (lav-lteam  from  the  nijrht — 


Wlien  the  landU-ss  sliall  iiave  f(M>thi)ld 

In  fee  \x\nm  the  soil, 
And  for  his  wife  and  little  ones 

Iltud  to  his  willing  toil : 
"When  the  wanderer,  no  longer 

In  sorrow  forced  to  roam, 
Phall  8CC  around  him  spring  ami  Moom 

'file  lilfS>rd   things  «if  Ilniiir: 
When  the  jMior  ami  widowed  mother 
Bhall  fit  rccoiniK'Utic  obtain, 


A  Hymn  of  the  Day  that  is  Dawning.  179 

For  her  days  and  nights  of  toiling, 

From  the  sordid  man  of  gain  : 
When  the  brawny  limbs  of  labor, 

And  the  hard  and  horny  hand, 
For  their  strivings,  for  their  doings, 

Meet  honor  shall  command  : 
TVTieu  suffering  hearts  that  struggle 

In  silence,  and  endure. 
Shall  receive,  unsought,  the  earnest 

jNIinistrations  of  the  pure  : 
When  the  master  with  his  bondmen 

For  a  price  shall  divide  the  soil. 
And  the  slave,  at  last  enfranchised, 

Shall  go  singing  to  his  toil : 
When  the  bloody  trade  of  the  soldier 

Shall  lose  its  olden  charm, 
And  the  sickle  hand  be  honored  more 

Than  the  sword  and  the  red  right-arm  : 
When  tolerance  and  truthfulness 

Shall  not  be  under  ban, 
And  the  fiercest  foe  and  deadliest 

Man  knows,  shall  not  be  man. 

Be  firm,  and  be  united. 

Ye  who  war  against  the  wrong ! 
Though  neglected,  though  deserted, 

In  your  purpose  still  be  strong ! 


180 


JUi^fcella  neons. 


To  the  faith  and  hope  that  move  ye 
In  the  thiugs  yo  tlare  and  d<», 

Though  the  world  rise  up  against  ye 
Be  resolute — be  true ! 


.v  r'' 


rv 


'^^^CV><N 


Truth  and  Freedom.  181 


JTruth  mxn  iTrcetronr. 


On  the  page  that  is  Immortal, 
We  the  pregnant  promise  see : 
"  Ye  shall  know  the  Truth,  my  people, 
And  the  Truth  shall  make  you  free." 

For  the  Truth,  then,  let  us  battle. 

Whatsoever  fate  betide ! 
Long  the  boast  that  we  are  Freemen, 

We  have  made,  and  published  Avide. 

He  who  has  the  Truth,  and  keeps  it, 
Keeps  what  not  to  him  belongs ; 

But  pei'forms  a  selfish  action. 
Which  his  fellow-mortal  wrongs. 

He  who  seeks  the  Truth,  and  trembles 
At  the  dangers  he  must  brave, 

Is  not  fit  to  be  a  Freeman : — 
He,  at  best,  is  but  a  slave. 

He  who  hears  the  truth,  and  places 
Its  high  promptings  under  ban. 

Long  may  boast  of  all  that 's  manly, 
But  can  never  be  a  Man. 


JS2  Mii^cUancous. 

Friend,  this  simple  lay  who  readest, 
Be  not  thou  like  eitlier  of  them  ; 

But  to  Truth  give  utmu.«Jt  freedom, 
And  the  tide  it  raises,  stem. 

])(>ld  in  speoeh,  and  hravo  in  action, 
JJo  lorever! — Time  will  tost, 

Of  the  free-soul'd  and  tlio  slavish. 
Which  fulfills  life's  mission  best. 

Be  thou  like  the  nohlc  Ancient — 
Scorn  the  threat  that  bids  thee  fear; 

S|)eak  ! — no  matter  what  betide  thee; 
Ld  thcni  strike,  but  imiLr  them  hear! 

]it«  thou  like  the  first  ajwstles — 
Be  thou  like  heroic  Paul : 

If  a  free  thought  seek  expression, 
SjK-ak  it  boldly  ! — s|)eak.  it  all ! 

Face  thine  enemies — accusers ; 

Scorn  the  prison,  rack,  or  nxl  I 
And,  if  tlmu  hast  TiM'Tii  to  utter, 

K>iH\ik- !  and  leave  the  rest  to  God. 


Comervatism.  183 


Ctonseibatfsm. 


The  Owl,  lie  fareth  well 

In  tlie  shadows  of  the  night; 

And  it  puzzleth  him  to  tell 
Why  the  Eagle  loves  the  light. 

Away  he  floats — away, 

From  the  forest  dim  and  old, 

Where  he  pass'd  the  gairish  day  :— 
The  night  doth  make  him  bold ! 

The  wave  of  his  downy  wing, 
As  he  courses  round  about, 

Disturbs  no  sleeping  thing 
That  he  findeth  in  his  route. 

The  moon  looks  o'er  the  hill, 

And  the  vale  grows  softly  light ; 

And  the  cock,  with  greeting  shrill, 
Wakes  the  echoes  of  the  night. 

But  the  moon — he  knoweth  well 

Its  old  familiar  face  ; 
And  the  cock — it  doth  but  tell. 

Poor  fool !  its  resting  place. 


184 


Jli-velhm^'ou.'*. 


Ami  as  still  :is  tlu'  spirit  of  Death 
On  the  air  his  piniuns  j>lay  ;  — 

There  's  not  the  noise  of  a  breath 
As  he  grapples  with  his  prey. 

Oil.  the  shadowy  Niirht  for  him  I 
It  liriiiLTi'tli  liiiu  fan-  ami  glee; 

And  what  eares  he  how  dim 
For  the  EaL'le  it  may  Ik? 

It  rlothes  him  from  the  cold, 

It  keeps  his  larders  full; 
And  he  loves  the  darkness  old, 

To  the  Eagle  all  so  dull. 

I>iit  the  dawn  is  in  the  ICast — 
And  tlie  shadows  disiipjH'ar; 

And  at  once  his  timid  breast 
Feels  the  j)reseiiee  of  a  fear. 

He  resists; — hut  all  in  vain  I 
The  cK'ar  Lii:ht  is  not  fur  him  ; 

So  he  Inustens  baek  again 
To  the  forest  old  and  dim. 

Through  his  head  strange  faneies  run 
For  heean  noteomprehend 

Wliv  the  njoon,  and  then  llic  >mii, 
rp  the  heavens  shoulil  aseend. — 


Conservatism.  1 85 

When  the  old  and  quiet  Night, 
With  its  shadows  dark  and  deep, 

And  the  half-revealing  light 
Of  its  stars,  he'd  ever  keep. 

And  he  hooteth  loud  and  long : — • 

But  the  Eagle  greets  the  day, 
And,  on  pinions  bold  and  strong, 

Like  a  roused  Thought,  sweeps  away ! 


'i9 


^ 


<u. 


V  « 


186  Miscellatieous. 


JTIir  aaborcr. 


Stand  ip— erect!     Thou  ha.<t  the  f«nu 
And  likeness  of  thy  (iod! — who  niure? 

A  M>iil  as  dauntless  'nii»l  the  storm 

Of  (hiily  life,  a  heart  as  warm 
Ami  pure  as  hreast  e'er  hore. 

AVhat  then? — Thou  art  as  true  a  man 
As  moves  the  human  mass  among ; 
As  much  a  i>art  of  the  (ireat  Plan 
Tiiat  with  Creation's  ilawn  bi^iran, 
As  any  >>{'  the  thrnuL'. 

Who  is  thine  enemy? — the  hi;:h 

In  station,  or  in  wealth  the  chief? 
The  jrreat,  who  euldly  jiass  thee  iiv, 
^\'ilh  |ii(iUil  .-trjt  ami  a\crtctl  eve? 
^lay  I    nursi'  nut  >uch  belit'f. 

It"  true  Miilo  thyself  thou  wast, 

What  were  the  proinl  one's  scorn  to  thee? 
A  feather,  whielj  thon  ini|;htest  east 
Aside,  as  iilly  as  the  l)last. 

The  liiflit  leaf  frnin  the  tree. 


The  Laborer.  187 

No  : — imcurbed  passions — low  desires — 

Absence  of  uoble  self-respect — 
Death,  iu  the  breast's  cousuniing  fires, 
To  that  high  nature  ^vhicll  aspires 

Forever,  till  thus  checked  : 

These  are  thine  enemies — thy  worst ; 

They  chain  thee  to  thy  lowly  lot — 
Thy  labor  and  thy  life  accurst. 
Oh,  stand  erect!  and  from  them  burst, 

And  longer  suffer  not ! 

Thou  art  thyself  thine  enemy  ! 

The  great ! — what  better  they  than  thou  ? 
As  theirs,  is  not  thy  will  as  free  ? 
Has  God  with  equal  favors  thee 

N^eglected  to  endow  ? 

True,  wealth  thou  hast  not :   'tis  l)ut  dust ! 

Nor  place,  uncertain  as  the  wind  ! 
But  that  thou  hast  which,  with  thy  crust 
And  water,  may  despise  the  lust 

Of  both — a  noble  mind. 

With  this,  and  passions  under  l)an, 

True  faith,  and  holy  trust  in  God, 
Thou  art  the  peer  of  any  man. 
Look  up,  then — that  thy  little  span 

Of  life  may  be  well  trod  ! 


188  Ml^ellaneous. 


In  tlie  fur  and  fading  ngcs 

Of  tlie  yuungcr  clays  of  earth, 
When  man's  aspirations  quiekenM, 

Ami  his  passions  had  their  hirth — 
When  first  paK'<l  his  gloritnis  hrauty, 

And  his  heart  first  knew  unrest, 
As  ho  yielded  to  the  tempter 

That  iiillanicd  and  fdlM  his  hreast — 
AVIuMi  the  Voice  that  was  in  Kden 

Echoed  through  his  startled  soul, 
And  he  heard  rehuking  anthems 

Through  the  luavi  idy  arches  r<>ll— 
When  he  fell  from  the  high  promise 

Of  his  hcing's  hlessi'd  morn. 
Til  a  night  of  doubt  and  struggle — 

Kadic;il')s  then  was  honi. 

Through  the  ages  long  and  dreary 

That  since  then  have  <lawii'd  mi  earth, 

Man  lias  had  hut  feehh-  glimpses 
Of  the  glory  of  his  hirth  : 

(.'atciiiiig  these,  his  snul,  aspiring 
Til  its  morning  lii^iil  again, 


.  Radicdlos.  189 

Hard  has  upward  toil'd,  and  often 

Fill'd  with  hope,  but  still  in  vain. 
Many  a  blessed  song  comes  stealing 

Downward  from  the  Eden  aisles, 
Whence  the  light  of  heavenliest  beauty 

Still  upon  the  banish'd  smiles  ; 
But  the  harmonies  are  broken 

Of  each  sounding  choral  hymn, 
And  the  gloom  that  vails  his  spirit 

Makes  e'en  heavenly  splendor  dim. 

Faint  revealings,  thwarted  hopings, 

AVearying  struggles,  day  by  day  : — 
So  the  long  and  dreary  ages 

Of  his  life  have  worn  away. 
War,  and  rapine,  and  oppression, 

Early  in  his  course  he  found — 
Brother  against  brother  striving — • 

By  the  few  the  many  bound. 
And  in  patience,  and  in  meekness, 

To  the  galling  chain  resign'd. 
Thus  the  fettered  limbs  have  rested — 

Thus  hath  slept  the  darkened  mind. 
But  it  wakens  now ! — it  flashes 

Like  the  lightning  ere  the  rain  ; 
And  those  limbs  grow  strong ! — Avhen  ready, 

They  can  rend  the  mightiest  chain. 


190  Miscellaneous. 

Tlirouirli  tilt'  slow  atul  siaitly  marches 

Of  the  ecuturies  suhliine, 
Radic-alos  hatli  Ix^cn  strengthcniug 

Fur  the  uobk'.st  work  of  Time ; 
Aiicl  he  comes  upon  the  Present 

Like  a  gml  iu  look  aud  mien, 
AVith  composure  liijrh  surveying 

All  the  tumult  of  the  scene: 
AVhero  obey  th§  fettered  millioua  ; 

Where  command  the  fettering  few  ; 
AVlure  the  cliain  of  wrong  is  forging, 

With  its  red  links  hid  from  view  ; 
And  he  standeth  by  the  peasant, 

Aud  he  standeth  by  the  lord, 
And  he  shouts  "Your  rights  are  e.|ual 

Till  earth  startles  at  the  word. 


Ill    liath  siCM  the  nford  written, 

h'rum  the  primal  nn~>rn  <'t'  iikiii, 
In  the  bhMHl  of  battling  nations 

O'er  ensanguined  plains  that  nin  ; 
In  the  tears  of  the  deluded, 

In  tlu'  swi-at  of  the  uppressM 
Fnun  Ind's  farthest  in-ophd  lM>rdei-s 

To  the  new  worlds  of  the  W»st. 


Hadicdlos.  191 

And  he  cometli  witli  deliverance ! 

And  his  might  shall  soon  be  known, 
Whei'e  the  wrong'd  rise  up  for  justice, 

And  the  wrongers  lie  o'erthrowu. 

Woe !  the  pride  that  then  shall  scorn  him  : 

He  will  bring  it  fitly  low  ! 
Woe !  the  arm  that  shall  oppose  him  : 

He  will  cleave  it  at  a  blow  ! 
Woe  !  the  hosts  that  shall  beset  him  : 

He  will  scatter  them  abroad ! 
He  will  strike  them  down  forever ! 

Eadicalos  is  of  God. 


J^ 


^  ''wW-W'^ 


192  Mi.<crUanc(ms. 


'I'm;  <l:iy  is  past; — the  fiuiet  nijrht 

Towiird  its  midlutur  wciireth  »>u  ; 
His  workshop  luis  been  closed  for  hours  — 

A  good  (hiy's  liibur  done. 
The  toil  is  hard  that  l)rini:s  liiin  bread  ; 

And  sometimes  he  has  seant  siipi>ly  : 
When  droops  awhile  his  manly  heail, 

And  glistens  his  full  eye. 

Yet  from  the  trial  sliriuK-  ii<   im-i  ; 

I'^ur  he  has  ynuth,  ami  strength,  and  will; 
And  though  his  toil  is  ill  n-paid, 

Bends  <laily  to  it  still. 
lie  sometimes  murmurs, — hut  his  pride 

Cheeks  each  expression  at  its  hirth, — 
That  Messings  to  his  class  denied 

Surround  the  dr<»nes  of  earth. 

lie  pa.-se-i,  n\orn  and  noon  and  night. 

'i'hr  hoim  s  of  luxury  anil  wealth  ; 
And  glances  at  their  gililed  ease, 

His  eve  will  take  1>V  stealth. 


The  Artisan.  193 

And  shadows  gather  on  his  face, 

At  times — lint  instantly  depart — 
He  feels  such  weakness  a  disgrace 

Both  to  his  head  and  heart. 

His  calling  sometimes  takes  him  where 

Wealth,  worth,  grace,  beauty,  all  unite  ; 
And  lovely  tones  arrest  his  ear, 

And  lovely  looks  his  sight ; 
And  much  he  thinks — and  half  he  sighs — 

Yet  ere  his  welcome  work  is  done. 
He  longs  for  home,  and  Mary's  eyes, 

And  for  his  prattling  son. 

His  labor  hath  been  light  to-day ; 

And  wife  and  child  before  him  sleep ; 
And  he  has  pass'd  the  half-spent  night 

In  study  close  and  deep. 
The  lamp  burns  dim — the  fire  is  low — 

The  book  is  closed  wherein  he  r(>ad  ; 
But  wildly  swell  the  streams  of  thought 

Its  fountain-pages  fed. 

With  eyes  fixed  calmly  on  the  floor, 

But  varying  and  expressive  face, 
He  cons  the  lesson  o'er  and  o'er — 

The  history  of  his  race. 


J 1 » 4  Minnlla  ncous. 

Ami  iiuicli  he  limls  of  wnnl  ainl  il»i<l, 
Wli'iso  virtue  is  fxainjdc  in>\\  ; 

I)iit  iiiun-  tliat  niakis  liis  1m).<(»iii  hKr*!, 
Ami  (larkons  o'er  his  ])row. 

The  thirst  for  wealth, — tlio  strife  for  jx>\ver- 

The  ceaseless  stnifrL'lc  fur  renown-  - 
The  daring'  that  hath  seizetl  a  realm, 

Or  caught  a  wavering  crown — 
Tlie  manhuod  that  hath  tanitly  In-nt 

And  fall'n  Kiuath  tyraiuiie  sway — 
The  halk'd- resistance,  that  hath  Knt 

Its  darkness  to  the  day. 

But  ehiedy  this  it  is  that  tills 

The  swelling  volume  of  his  mind  : 
The  countless  wrongs  and  cruelties 

That  have  oppress'd  his  kind. 
And  viewing  them,  upon  his  hrain 

His  own  hard  struggles  darkly  thi-'H  •  ; 
And  as  he  feels  their  weight  again. 

It  presses  like  a  \Mong  : 

Wrong  to  liiiii-»  ll".  ami  wrong  to  nil 
Who  Inar  the  liunliii.-  he  hath  l>oiiu': 
"A  yokel"  up  starling  he  exclaim-, 
"And  oh,  how  meeklv  worn!"' 


The  Artisan.  195 

But  as  lie  reads  Life's  riddle  still, 

He  feels,  Avith  sudden  chauge  of  mood, 
The  stern,  the  indomitable  will. 

That  never  was  subdued. 

« 
The  will,  not  to  destroy,  but  build  ! 

Not  the  blind  jNIight  of  old  renown, 
"Which  took  the  pillars  in  its  grasp, 

And  shook  the  temple  doAvn — 
But  that  whose  patient  energy 

Works  ever  upward,  without  rest, 
Until  the  pierced  and  parted  sea 

Rolls  from  its  coral  breast. 

In  the  dim  fire-light,  for  awhile, 

His  tall  form  moveth  to  and  fro  ; 
Then  by  the  couch  of  those  he  loves 

He  stops,  and  bendeth  low. 
Oh,  holy  love  !  oh,  blessed  kiss  ! 

Ye  ask  not  splendor — bide  not  pow'r — ■ 
But  in  a  humble  home  like  this. 

Ye  have  your  triumph  hour  ! 

He  sleeps — but  even  on  his  dreams 

Obtrudes  the  purpose  of  his  soul ; 
^\v  wandrrs  wlicri^  the  living  streams 

Of  knowkMlge  briulillv  roll; 


196  Mi^dlaneous. 

Ami  wlifit'  iiitii  win  their  nwn  tru.nl  way?, 
Not  vitld  to  (luiilit  ur  (lark  despair, 

In  dreams  his  iMiundiiiL'  spirit  strays — 
In  dreams  he  triumphs  there. 

With  strnn^^er  arm,  with  mifrhticr  heart, 

Than  he  hath  felt  or  known  before. 
When  eomes  the  morrow's  hour  of  toil, 

He'll  leave  his  luiiid)le  door. 
No  wavering"  luiice  hi- '11  know — no  rest, 

I'ntil  the  new-seen  L'oal  l)e  won  ; 
But  firm,  and  calm,  uuJ  self-posM-.-'d, 

liiar  re.solutely  ou. 

And  this  it  is  that,  year  i)y  year, 

Through  whieh  nor  faith  nor  hoix*  irrows  le 
Pursued,  shall  crown  his  hiirh  career 

With  honor  and  success. 
This — this  it  is  that  marks  thr  man  ! 

Daire  thou,  then,  'ni-ath  who-se  studious  eye 
This  lesson  lies,  nui.se  up  at  oucc, 

.\iid  on  tliyM'lf  rely  ! 

(Jive  to  thy  free  soul  freest  thou^rht  ; 

.\iid  \\hat.«M-'er  it  prompts  tlu-e  <lo. 
Thai  m:iiifidl\,  year  in.  year  out. 

W'itii  all  thy  mii:hl  pur-ui'. 


The  Arthnn. 


197 


What  tliough  thy  name  may  not  be  heard 
Afar,  or  shouted  through  the  town, 

Thou  'It  win  a  higher  meed  of  praise, 
A  worthier  renown. 

Press  on,  then  I — earth  has  need  of  thee! 

The  metal  at  the  forge  is  red ; 
The  ax  is  rusting  by  the  tree  ; 

The  grain  hangs  heavy  in  the  head. 
Heed  not  who  works  not — lahw  thou ! 

Lay  bravely  hold,  nor  pause,  nor  shrink! 
Life's  Rubicon  is  here — and  stand 

Not  dubious  on  the  brink! 


1 98  Mincdla  ncow. 


riir  Xir^  -tar. 


RESPECTFl'LLY    rNPCRIBKD   TO   TIIK    REPRESEXTATn'ES   OF 

Tin:  iM)(.'sTi:n:s  oi*  tiii:  tniti:!)  statics. 


As,  to  one  who  stands  a   watclur  liy  the  solemn-sounding 

sea, 
Kise  from  the  clliptii"  waters  mii^hty  ships  eontiniially, 
\\'ith    tlie    rare   whnst-   type   is   ennstaiit.  th-'tii.rh   its  (uiter- 

seeiniiiLTs  ran^e, 
As   the    eivilizatiniis   wi<UMi,  o'er    the    l><Mm«llis<    fit  Ms   of 

change : 

S<),  to  one  who  j,'azes  th(tnphtf"iil,  from  the  h'sseiiinjj  shores 

of  time, 
O'er  Eternity's  expanses,  siKiit.  Hmith^ss,  suhhme, 
liise  the  marvt'hms,  mi;;hty  aires,  nmndimr  up  thesliadowv 

spheres, 
With    the   cicrnal    laNvs   <if  onhr,  and  the  ehauj^es   of  the 

veai-s. 


The  New  Age.  109 

Standing  where  the  graceful  vessel  cleaves  the  ocean  and 
the  sky, 

Where  the  starr'd  and  mighty  centuries  sweep  with  match- 
less grandeur  by, 

Let  me,  while  upon  my  vision  coming  changes  briglitly 
throng. 

Sing  the  age's  Jubilate — sing  the  Worker's  Triumph  S(jng. 


JUBILATE. 


Hearken,  human  brother — ho  ! 

Worker  at  the  board  or  bench, 
High  aloft  the  window  throw — 

Let  escape  the  stew  and  stench  ; 
Air  like  that  in  these  shut  rooms, 
Foul  and  damp  with  lingering  glooms, 
Do  the  best  with  it  you  can, 
Is  not  fit  for  lungs  of  man. 
Though  the  walls  that  rise  about 
Shut  the  blessed  sunlight  out, 
Yet  the  sweet  and  liberal  air 
Wanders  freely  everywhere. 
'Mid  tlie  darkness,  'mid  the  din, 
Lift  the  sasli,  and  let  it  in  ! 


.'00  MinfrUnuroiin. 

'I'liick  npuri  your  palliil  hruw 
StMinl  till'  rcckiiii.'  f\vi':it-<lr(>j(s  iiuw  : 
Tliirkcr  still  ii|>iin  yoiir  face 
IJiics  of  niiirnislj  intorlaco. 
Wi|)(«  away  tlio  lumcst  sweat ; 
Pnnid  of  it  ymi  A\x\\\  he  yet  ! 
]^aiiisl),  too,  the  lines  of  jMiiii — 
llimian  toil  is  not  in  vain! 
Work  and  wait^ — 'twill  yet  lu-  I)av; 
Long  the  ta>k,  luit  work  awav  I 


II. 

Striker  at  tlie  anvil,  hoi 

Vol!  :iie  all  iK'grinied  and  hot  ; 
Still  yon  strike  a  niiirhty  Mow; 

Let  your  spirit  falt«r  not  I 
I'raee  your  sinews — plant  vour  foot- 
White  the  skin  iH'noath  the  soot : 
Turn  the  iron — strike  it  well — 
lOvi-ry  blow  at  last  will  tell. 
Soon  your  elear  or  >ul)lle  thonirht 
In  the  nirlal  shall  he  wrou^dit  ; 
Soon  the  fortre's  t'lowiiii:  heat. 
Ami  the  haniiner's  rinirini:  heat, 
So  shall  >ha|><'  the  iron  rml 
That  '(will  Work  for  man  and  ( Jod  ; 


The  Neiv  Age.  201 

So,  too,  sliall  your  blow  on  blow 
Bring  the  hour  you  long  to  know. 
Clutch  the  iron — heat  it  hot — 
Be  of  spirit — falter  not. 
Like  its  glow  shall  l)e  your  Day ; 
AVork  with  will,  and  work  away  ! 


III. 

Mighty  molder,  hist  and  ho  ! 

Down  there  in  your  earthly  halls, 
Like  the  metal  all  aglow. 

How  the  sweat  from  off  you  falls- 
Dripping  with  each  heave  or  stroke, 
As  the  rain  drips  from  the  oak ! 
Still  the  mold  you  well  prepare — 
Still  the  molten  metal  bear — 
Still  the  casting  comes  out  true  : 
Mighty  molder,  it  will  do ! 
Only  when  the  eve  shall  lay 
Aside  the  labors  of  the  day, 
And  unto  your  wife  you've  come, 
Sit  not  with  her  gloomy — dumb: 
Look  not  sadly  on  her  boys : 
Dash  not  thus  her  matron  joys : 
Give  to  each  and  all  a  hope : 
Strength  and  will  with  fate  can  cope. 


202  MiifcdlancmiJ*. 

As  you  hrinir  the  mn.«s  aglow, 
You  can  Itriuir  or  weal  or  woe  ; 
As  you  niolil  or  shaft  or  wheel, 
You  can  iiiohl  or  woe  or  weal. 
Vi'U  have  strength  to  make  the  Day 
^N'mk  with  will,  then:   work  awav  ! 


TV. 

Worn  and  weary  workers — ho! 

Toil  is  jiain,  if  so  you  say  ; 
But  to  those  who  singing  go 

Til  their  hilxirs  (hiy  l>v  day. 
Toil  is  duty,  growth  an<l  gain — 
Never  waste<l — never  vain. 
Worker  hv  the  hot  highway, 

111  the  lililidilig  l>I:i/.c  (if  d;iv — 
Delver  in  the  deep,  dark  mine. 
Where  no  rays  of  sunlight  shine— 
I'atient.  pent-up  nian-niaehine, 
At  ihr  liMiin  antl  sliuttle  seen, 
Weaving  iti  with  nicest  art 
Tiirohhings  of  your  own  poor  in-art. 
Till  the  suhtlc  texturi'S  seem 
With  yiinr  very  life  to  gleam  — 
Stitcher  Ity  the  cnidle's  side, 
Where  thy  fondest  ho|H'S  ahide. 


The  Neio  Age.  203 

Working  with  a  heart  of  miglit 
All  the  day,  and  half  the  night, 
Sometimes  till  the  east  grows  red 
With  the  dawning,  for  thy  bread, 
Though  thou  art  of  feeble  limb, 
And  thine  eyes  are  pain'd  and  dim, 
Sending  off,  with  every  piece 
Which  thy  weary  hands  release, 
Portions  of  thy  life  wrought  in 
With  the  garment  white  and  thin- 
Hard  the  task,  but  work  away : 
Yet  shall  dawn  the  Better  Day. 

V. 

Faith  is  might,  my  brothers.     Ho! 

Weary  workers  everywhere, 
For  the  New  Age,  rounding  to 

Like  a  planet,  now  prepare : 
Not  by  revel — not  by  rust — 
Not  by  scorning  yet  your  crust — 
Not  by  idle  dreams  of  wealth 
Won  by  luck,  or  got  by  stealth — 
Not  by  flattering  hopes  of  ease  : 
Better,  braver  things  than  these, 
As  its  first  beams  on  you  fall, 
Asks  the  New  Age  of  you  all. 


204  Mi.<rHlanroiii*. 

Workers!  ye  arc  brother?  born — 
Tri'ut  the  title  not  with  scorn. 
Wt)rkers!  Ixtrn  or  where  or  when, 
Better,  ye  are  f'cHow-nien  : 
Workers! — (so  'tis  felt  at  length) — 
Ye  have  got  the  jrilt  of  strentrth: 
Yours  the  gift  of  numl)eiv,  too, 
"Then  what?"     To  yourselves  Ik  true! 
AVork  with  will,  and  work  away, 
Doubting  not  the  Better  Day! 
Eaeh  to  each  a  brother  Ik — 
Steadfast  in  your  sympathy ; 
All  to  all  he  fellow-iiu'ii ; 
Ye  will  lack  but  little  then. 
"We  were  made  for  Laltor?"     True, 
So  was  labor  nuide  for  you. 
VoM  are  Labor's:    Labor  yours; 
This  your  conuuon  weal  secures. 
Labor  has  been  Money's  long; 
And  in  this  has  been  the  wrong. 
Let  it  hence  In-  yours,  and  you 
Lalntrs.     Then,  with  duty  due, 
And  with  muscles  well  combinM 
With  yttur  energies  of  mind, 
\\'orkei-s!  ye  shall  mui*ln-i<  l>e 
III  the  halls  of  Industry. 


The  New  Age.  205 

Heart  and  hope!     The  niglit  withdrawn, 
How  the  coming  morn  sliall  dawn ! 
Work,  my  brothers — work  away, 
Doubting  not  the  Better  Day ! 


VI. 

"Heart  and  hope!"  my  brothers.     Ho! 

Sons  of  sorrow,  sous  of  toil, 
Ye  shall  not  forever  go 

Yoked,  as  now — another's  spoil. 
See!  the  night  is  nearly  pass'd, 
And  the  morning  dawns  at  last. 
Far  behind,  the  shadows  lie 
Dark  against  the  troubled  sky ; 
While,  before,  the  arch  is  gray 
Where  the  harbinger  of  day, 
Rounding  up  the  azure  cope, 
Flames  the  Morning  Star  of  Hope, 
— Be  not  hasty,  be  not  rash. 
Though  its  beams  around  you  flash: 
Time  his  offspring  will  mature — 
Work  and  wait — the  end  is  sure. 
Falter  not,  but  bide  your  time : 
Calm  endurance  is  sublime. 
— Weary  workers !  work  away : 
God  will  lead  the  Better  Day ! 


206  Mijtcrllunroiut. 


Free  as  the  air,  free  as  the  sea, 
Let  all  tliiiijrs  e<inie,  let  all  thiiiirs  he: 
The  air,  at  every  start  and  pause, 
That  still  confesses  natural  laws — 
Till'  sea,  tliat  cvi'r  chlis  an<l  llnws. 
And  still  tin-  laws  iil"  nafuri-  knows. 

Free  as  that  air's  sky-<'Kavin^'  hird. 
Whose  son},'s  at  Ileav'ns  hlue  jrates  are  heanl 
Kre  .sunlM'anis  tip  rarth's  loftiest  jH>ak, 
Let  all  thing's  move,  let  all  thinirs  spiak  — 
For  laws  divine  or  human  reach, 
Or  may,  and  wisely  jjjoveni  each. 

Free  as  the  sea's  careirinij  ships, 
Whose  arrowy  sjH^e*!  the  wind  outstri|v5. 
As  o\'r  the  hroail  and  houndless  d»t|i, 
I'naw'd,  uncliain'd,  hut  lnlni'il,  tlu-y  sweep. 
Let  all  thin,:.'s  l)e,  as  nil  thinirs  ••an — 
And  lirst,  uuJ  chicl"  of  uU  thiugs,  man. 


Be  firm ! — Be  tnie !  207 


Mt  iffrm  i—Mt  ®:rue ! 


.     .     .     "As  the  sun, 
Ere  it  has  risen,  sometimes  paints  its  image 
In  the  atmosphere,  so  often  do  the  spirits* 
Of  great  events  stride  on  before  the  events — 
And  in  to-day  already  wallas  to-morrow.' 

Schiller — "  Wallensiein." 


Statesman  !  on  the  giddy  height 
Whence,  at  will,  thou  swayest  men, 

Steals  a  darkness  o'er  thy  sight  ? 
Moves  a  cloud  within  thy  ken? 
Be  firm  ! — Be  true! 

And  though  the  hurtling  heav'ns  grow  black, 

Unfailing  light  shall  gild  thy  track. 

Orator !  amid  the  crowd 

Moved  like  waves  at  thy  behest, 

Hear'st  thou  that  which,  shouted  loud, 
Were  a  terror  to  thy  breast  ? 


♦Nativism:  exclusion — Foreign  influence:  home  Catholicism:  anti- 
popery — Papal  pretensions:    protestant  intolerance — Ultra    democracy; 
"istocratic  republicanism. 


208  Mi.'*rrlhtiirou.<t. 

Be  firm! — Be  true! 
Then  fall  what  may  upon  thine  ear, 
Thy  heart  siiall  f'lel  no  coward  fear. 

Christian!  of  the  faith  of  Rome! 

Do  you  hear  a  hissini:  worn 
Rising  'gainst  you,  in  the  home 

Of  your  new-adoption  lx)ru? 

Be  firm!— Be  true! 

If  Gotl  is  with  you,  what  eare  yc 

Though  hate  roar  as  a  raging  sea  ? 

Christian!  of  thr  ("aith  that  laid 
Rome's  old  Ixtndage  in  the  dust! 

Fcur'st  thou  that  thou  art  betmy'd? 
Feel'st  thou  that  this  quarrel's  just? 
Hf  linn  !— Be  trui- ! 

Fall  if  it  must  1k'  in  the  strife. 

But  yield  not  thou  one  ineh  for  life! 

Stranger!   from  a  fliine  abroad, 
I"'roni  a  laml  Ix-yoml  the  sea, 

Deem'st  thou  in  thy  heart  tliat  God 
(Jives  a  home-right  here  to  thee? 
I5«'  firm! — Be  true! 

And  though  it  cost  the««  all  tiiou  liast, 

Assi-rl  that  ri-lil  wliih-  lifr  shall  last. 


Be  firm  !— Be  trvr  !  209 

Freeman !  boru  upon  the  soil ! 

Fully,  fairly,  deemest  tliou 
Alien  arts  would  make  a  spoil 

Of  this  land  of  freedom  now : 
Be  firm  ! — Be  true! 
Resolve  on  what  will  shield  from  harm, 
And  do  it  with  no  laggard  arm  ! 

Man  !  of  every  clime  and  creed ! 

With  a  high  and  holy  trust, 
Dost  thou  on  thy  mission  speed, 

Seeking  but  the  Right,  the  Just? 
Be  firm  ! — Be  true! 
Though  sorely  tried  in  many  a  way. 
Despair  not! — God  will  bring  thy  Day. 


-~^--^r  Ij, 


/-.- 


210  ^f^sccH(l  neons. 


:pi1nfl  Z^tvsts. 


IIow  with  tlic  soiif;  of  ovory  liinl, 
AikI  with  tho  scout  of  ovcrv  lli>w'r. 

Some  recollection  dear  is  stirrM 
Of  many  a  lon^-ileparted  hour. 

Whose  course,  tlioujih  shrouditl  now  in  nitdit, 

AViis  tnictil  in  lines  of  golden  light! 

I  know  not  if,  when  years  have  cast 
Their  sha»lows  on  life's  early  ilreams, 

T  is  wise  to  tiiuch  the  1Iii|k'  that's  jwist, 
And  re-illunu-  its  fading  iH-anis: 

Hut,  though  the  future  hath  its  star, 

That  olden  IIojh?  is  ilearer  far. 

Of  nil  tho  present,  much  is  hright ; 

And  in  the  coming  years,  I  see 
A  hrilliant  and  a  cheering  light. 

Which  hums  before  me  constantly. — 
Ouiding  my  steps,  through  haze  and  gltMim, 
To  where  I'^ime's  furri'ts  proudly  l(M>ni. 


Sprinri  Vcne^.  211 

Yet  coldly  sliincs  it  on  my  brow  ; 

And  iu  my  breast  it  wakes  to  life 
None  of  tlie  holy  feelings  now, 

With  which  my  boyhood's  heart  Avas  rife: 
It  can  not  touch  that  secret  spring 
AVhich  erst  made  life  so  bless'd  a  thing. 

Give  me — then  give  me  birds  and  flow'rs, 
Which  are  the  voice  and  breath  of  Spring ! 

For  those  the  songs  of  life's  young  hours 
With  thrilling  touch  recall  and  sing, — 

And  these,  with  their  sweet  breath,  impart 

Old  tales,  whose  memory  warms  the  heart. 


212  ^f}.'<cr]lnnrf^^t:^. 


To  tin  lEnili)  -Sprfufl  jFlotucr. 


FiPiST  of  the  fruitful  Spriiifrtiino!   wck-omo  thou, 
Beautiful  pioneer  of  the  Floral  World! 
As  the  l)rii:ht,  high-soul'd  ones  of  huinau  kind, 
Go  forth  into  tlio  houiidles.^  wilderness 
Fearle.-J.s  and  first ;  and  on  the  traeklcs.<  deep. 
Adventurous,  dare  the  .surge  whieh  ne'er  before 
Ila-s  eurl'd  and  crested  to  the  streaming  flag ; 
Tilt'  whiK-  umniiulful  of  their  toils  severe, 
And  pirils  that  encompass  them  :   S<>  th<>ii, 
Ileraltl  of  after-<'onjing  multitudes, 
Darest  the  chill  and  hlighting  storms  of  Manii, 
And  spnatl'st  thy  cheerful  pi-tals  to  the  eye, 
Kegardless  of  the  cloud  that,  stooping  low. 
Frowns  darkly  on  thee,  an<l  with  muttered  threat 
Spreads  its  thick  folds  between  thee  and  the  sun. 

To  me,  dear  art  thou,  henild  flower  I     No  rich. 
Ami  gamly  coloring,  hast  thou  :  thy  leaves 
Have  not  the  rainlxiw-hrightness.  nor  the  deep 
And  (l:i/./.ling  Inic  nt"  tiiose  which  throng  the  earth 
III  suiuuH  T.  to  the  hot  ami  burning  sun 


To  an  Earhj  Spring  Floioer. 


213 


Opeuing  their  bosoms :  But  thou  hast  a  tint 

More  delicate  by  far ;  and  to  the  eye 

Pleased  with  the  simply  beautiful,  thou  art 

More  grateful  than  the  gaudily  attired. 

E'en  as  the  beautiful  of  human-kind, 

Who  live  not  in  the  blaze  of  Fashion's  sun, 

Nor  waste  their  early  years  at  Folly's  shrine, 

— Where  Nature's  glorious  handiwork  is  warp'd — ■ 

Are  by  the  good  of  earth  respected  most, 

And  pleasantest  to  the  All-seeing  Eye. 


5- 


214  MUcdlancous. 


Dan^clfons. 


My  lieart  leaps  like  a  child's,  when  first 
I  sec  tliein  tin  lluir  lowly  stem, 

As  from  still  wint'ry  fioMs  they  hurst, 
Briirht  as  the  hliie  skies  over  them. 

Sprinkling  with  ir»>M  the  meadowy  <;reen, 

AVhere  Spring's  approach  is  earliest  secu. 

They  come  in  changeful  April  days. 
These  children  of  the  cloud  and  sun, 

When  light  with  shadow  softly  plays, 
As  hoth  along  tlie  ridges  run, 

AVooing  the  hee  from  out  his  cell, 

With  tales  of  fluw.  ry  .vl..p.s  they  tell. 

Bright  horologe  of  sea.sons — they 
Proclaim  the  llonil  calends  here, 

Kevealing  when  in  woods  away 

Spring  (I'twers  ami  singing  hirds  a{<iH>ar, 

Throni:li  open  ai~le  and  nia/y  Iniut 

To  hire  the  f.,t  of  ehil.lh.H.d  out. 


Dandelions.  215 

I  love  them  that  so  soon  they  s})ring 

Where  sh)pes  the  meadow  to  the  brook ; 

I  love  them  that  to  earth  they  bring 
So  cheerful  and  so  warm  a  look ; 

And  that  again  they  give  to  me 

The  playmates  of  my  infancy. 

0 !  days  of  love,  and  trust,  and  truth ; 

(The  morning  sky  is  strangely  bright!) 
O !  loved  companions  of  my  youth  ; 

(How  darkly  closes  in  the  night!) 
Again  the  fields  spread  free  and  far ; 
Beyond  them,  still  the  woodlands  are. 

I'm  with  you  now,  glad-hearted  ones! 

Where'er  beneath  the  April  sky 
The  flashing  rill  in  music  runs, 

Or  flowery  lawns  in  sunlight  lie — 
Where  harvest  apples  ripe  we  see, 
And  where  the  summer  berries  be. 

I'm  with  you  where  the  cardinal  bird 
Pipes  in  the  budding  groves  of  spring, 

And  where  the  thrasher's  song  is  heard 
Till  all  the  summer  forests  ring; 

Where  nuts  in  autumn  fall,  and  where 

The  wild  grape  hangs,  I'm  with  you  there. 


216 


Mlicdlaneom. 


OI   (lays  of  luvf,  ami  trust,  anil  truth  ; 

(The  flowers  were  i)ri}jrht  vi|M)n  the  lawn!) 
O!   loved  coinpaiiiniis  of  my  youth; 

(Iltiw  niauy,  like  the  flowrrs.  are  t'ouel) 
Nor  tluwi-r  nor  ehild  goes  down  in  vain: 
Ye  both  shall  rise  and  hlooni  ajraiu. 


¥^   ^-. 


,:« 


"<. 


May.  217 


I 


Would  that  tliou  couldst  last  for  aye, 

jVIerry,  ever-merry  jNlay ! 

Made  of  suu-gleams,  shade  and  showers, 

Bursting  buds,  and  breathing  flowers ! 

Dripping-lock'd,  and  rosy-vested, 

Violet-slipper'd,  rainbow-crested ; 

Girdled  with  the  eglantine, 

Festoon'd  with  the  dewy  vine : 

INIerry,  ever-merry  May, 

Would  that  thou  coiddst  last  for  aye ! 

Out  beneath  thy  morning  sky ! 

Dian's  bow  still  hangs  on  high ! 

And  in  the  blue  depths  afar. 

Glimmers,  here  and  there,  a  solitary  star. 

Diamonds  robe  the  bending  grass, 

Glist'ning  early  flowers  among — 
Monad's  world,  and  fairy's  glass, 
Bathing  fount  for  wandering  sprite— 

By  mysterious  fingers  hung 
In  the  lone  and  quiet  night. 
Now  the  freshening  breezes  pass — 


218  MUrrllaneoiu*. 

Giitherini:,  as  they  steal  alonrr. 

Rich  j)C'rf'innc.  ami  matin  sdiijr — 

Ami  <iuickly  to  »kstriK-tit>n  liurlM 

Is  fairy's  <liaim»u(l  gla^s,  ami  mouail's  dcwtlntp 

world. 
Jj(»!  yon  cloud,  uhich  liunir  l>ut  now 
Black  u[>on  the  mountain's  brow, 
Threatening  the  green  earth  with  storm — 
See  !  it  heaves  its  giant  form, 
And,  ever  changing  shajH-  and  hue. 
But  still  presenting  son»cthing  new. 
Moves  slowly  up,  and  spreading  rolls  away 
Toward  the  rich  purple  streaks  that  usher  iu 

the  day; 
Bright'iiing,  as  it  onward  goes, 
I'ntil  its  very  center  glows 
With  the  warm,  cheering  light,  the  coming  sun 

bestows: 
As  the  passing  Christian's  soul, 
Ncaring  the  celestial  gi>al. 
liright  and  brighter  grow.-,  till  (  mmI  illumes  the 

uh.ilr. 

Out  iH-m-alh  thy  noonti<h>  sky  I 
On  a  shaily  dope  I  lie. 
(living  lancy  ample  play; 


3faij.  219 

And  there  's  uot  more  blest  than  I, 

One  of  Adam's  race  to-day. 
Out  beneath  thj  noontide  sky ! 
Earth,  how  beautiful ! — how  clear 
Of  cloud  or  mist  the  atmosphere ! 
"What  a  glory  greets  the  eye ! 
"What  a  calm,  or  quiet  stir, 
Steals  o'er  Nature's  worshiper — 
Silent,  yet  so  eloquent, 
That  we  feel 't  is  heaven-sent — 
Waking  thoughts  that  long  have  slumber'd 
Passion-dimm'd  and  earth-encumber'd — 
Bearing  soul  and  sense  away. 
To  revel  in  the  Perfect  Day 
That  'waits  us,  when  we  shall  for  aye 
Discard  this  darksome  dust — this  2:)risou-house 
of  clay ! 

Out  beneath  thy  evening  sky  ! 

Not  a  breeze  that  wanders  l)y 

But  hath  swept  the  green  earth's  bosom — 

Kifling  the  rich  grape-vine  blossom. 

Dallying  with  the  simplest  flower 

In  mossy  nook  and  rosy  bower — 

To  tlie  porfum'd  green-house  straying, 

And  witli  rii-h  cxolics  ]playiug — 


220  MisceUaneotti*. 

Then,  imsatt'l.  s\vt>(>j>in<;  over 
Biiiiks  of  tliyiiH',  aii'l  lifMs  ">f  ilovcr! 
Out  beneath  tliy  evening  sky  ! 
Groups  of  children  cajHT  l)v, 
Cn)\vnM  with  flowers,  and  rush  along 
"With  jovtuis  lauL'^li,  and  .-Imut.  ami  .<ong. 
Flashing  eye,  and  radiant  eheek. 
Spirits  all  unsunn'd  hespeak. 
They  arc  in  Life's  May-month  hours — 
And  those  wild  hursts  of  joy,  what  are  they  hut 
Life's  flowers  ? 

Would  that  tliou  could'.^t  last  for  aye, 

Merry,  evtr-nierry  May! 

Made  of  sini-gleanis,  shade  and  showers, 

Bursting  huds,  and  hreathing  flowers; 

Drippingdock'd,  and  rosy-vest»'d, 

\'inlr|->lippt  r'd,  rainhii\v-cn'Sti'<l ; 

(Jirdlcd  \s  itii  the  fglantiiif, 

l'\'stoon'd  with  till'  dewy  vine: 

Mcrrv,  ever-nurry  May. 

W'-uld  tliat  thou  couldst  Ia>t  for  avc! 


The  Cardinal  Bird,  221 


5rhe  ©artiincil  Uirtr. 


She  brought  a  redbird  in  a  cage 

And  hung  it  from  my  window-sill: — 
The  redbird  then  was  all  the  rage, 

And  may  be  still. 
I  know  not — I  so  long  have  heen 
Amid  the  city's  dust  and  din. 
But  when  I  was  a  little  child 
I  greatly  loved  its  wood-notes  wild, 
Which  lured  rae  many  a  sunny  day 
Through  maple-forests  far  away. 
For  years  though  I  had  seldom  heard 

The  cardinal  bird. 

A  day  and  then  a  week  pass'd  by : — 
The  redbird  hanging  from  the  sill 
Sang  not ;  and  all  were  wondering  why 

It  was  so  still — 
When  one  bright  morning,  loud  and  clear, 
Its  whistle  smote  my  drowsy  ear, 
Ten  times  repeated,  till  the  sound 
Fill'd  every  echoing  niche  around ; 


222  Mi.-<cclki)icoi{.<. 

And  all  thiiiL's  earliest  loved  in*  me, 
— The  l)ird,  tlif  l)n>nk,t]je  (lower,  the  tree, — 
Ctiiue  l)aek  a^'uiii,  a.<  tlius  I  heard 
Till'  canliiiMl  Iiird. 

Wlitre  maple  orehards  towered  aloft. 
Ami  spicewood  bushes  spread  In-law, 

Where  skies  were  blue,  and  winds  were  soft, 
I  could  but  go — 

For,  opening  through  a  wildering  haze, 

ApjK'ared  my  restless  ehildhood's  davs; 

And  truant  feet  and  loitering  nuKMl 

»Soon  found  me  in  the  same  old  W(mhI, 
— (Illusion's  lidur  but  seldom  brings 
So  mueh  the  very  form  of  things) — 

Where  iirst  I  sought,  and  saw,  ami  heard 
The  cardinal  bird. 

Then  came  green  meadows,  broad  and  bright, 

Wliere  dandelions,  with  wealth  untold, 
Cileam'd  on  the  young  antl  eager  sight 

Likt"  stars  of  golil — 
And  on  the  very  meadow's  edge, 
Beneath  the  nigged  blacklnrrv  hi-dge, 
'Mid  mosses  golden,  gray  and  green, 
'J'hf  tn'>h  young  butter-eups  were  seen, 


The  Cardinal  Bird.  223 

And  small  spring-beauties,  seut  to  lie 
The  heralds  of  Auemoue  : 
All  just  as  when  I  earliest  heard 
The  cardinal  bird. 

Upon  the  gi"ay  old  forest'^  rim 

I  snufF'd  the  crab-tree's  sweet  jierfume  ; 
And  farther,  where  the  light  was  dim, 

I  saw  the  bloom 
Of  IVIay-apples,  bent^ith  the  tent 
Of  umbrel  leaves  above  them  bent : 
Where  oft  was  shifting  light  and  shade 
The  blue-eyed  ivy  wildly  stray'd  ;  _ 

And  Solomou's-seal,  in  graceful  play, 
Swung  where  the  straggling  sunlight  lay:  — 
The  same  as  when  I  earliest  heard 

The  cardinal  bird. 

And  on  the  slope,  above  the  rill 

That  wound  among  the  sugar-trees, 
I  heard  them  at  their  labors  still, 

The  murmuring  Iwes: 
Bold  foragers !   that  come  and  go 
Without  permit  from  friend  or  foe : 
In  the  tall  tulip-trees  o'er  head 
Ou  pollen  greedily  they  fed ; 


-24  Ml<rr}lanrmt». 

And  from  low  piirpli'  plil.ix,  that  irrow 
Alumt  my  fret,  sippM  IkhiovmIow. 
lliiw  like  the  scenes  when  first  I  heard 
The  eanlinal  hinl  I 

JIow  like!-  anil  y.'t     .     .     .     The  sim?]]  gr«.ws 
Weak: — 
Ah,  but  I  miss  the  sunny  lirnw — 
The  spurklinj;  eye — the  ruddy  cheek! 

Wliere,  where  are  u«>w 
The  three  who  then  Uside  me  stood 
Like  sunlnams  in  the  dusky  w.>od? 
Alas  I  I  am  alone.     Since  theu, 
They've  tnnl  the  weary  wavs  of  men:  — 
One  ou  the  eve  of  manhoud  died  ; 
Two  in  its  flush  of  ihjwV  and  priiie. 
Their  jrnives  are  jireen,  wlure  first  we  luard 
The  cardinal  hird. 

The  ndhird  iVniii  th«'  windi»w  hun<r. 

Not  loni:  niy  fimcics  thus  iK-i^uilcd  : 
Aj;ain  in  maplc-;:rovcs  if  sunij 
Its  Wood-notes  wild  ; 
I'^or,  rou>in;:  with  a  tearful  eve, 
I  iravf  it  to  the  trees  and  .-kv. — 


The  Cardinal  Bird. 


225 


I  missVl  po  niiicli  those  brothers  three, 
Who  walk'd  youth's  floAvery  ways  Avith  me, 
I  coukl  not,  dared  uot,  but  behove 
It  too  had  brothers,  that  would  grieve 
Till  iu  old  haunts  again  't  was  heard, 
The  cardinal  bird. 


22G  Misccll'tncmt.-*. 


^  .Summer  Scene. 


Tin:  (lay  was  veil  iii;_'h  uVr ; 
The  sun,  near  the  hori/oii.  dimlv  shone: 
Ami  the  Invj:  shallows  nf  tlu-  (l.M.r-vard  trees, 

Athwart  tlu'  yard  wore  thmwii. 

li('f()ro  our  huiuhle  door, 

I  poll  the  soft,  eool  irrass, 
A\  ith  hosom  ojMii  to  the  cvfiiini:  hrei>7.e 

Which  now  and  tlun  did  pass. 
MllsilI!.^  and  dreaininir  of  the  spirit's  hirth. 
And  its  relations  to  this  JK'autiful  earth, 

I  !:iy  aloMi'     - 
IJorne  on  IniaLriiiation's  airy  ])inioiis, 
Far  from  tin-  world'-  turmoil,  uiid  sonlid  man's  dominion* 

]^ve  came  on  •rently  :   and  her  step  was  s«'en 
SlirrinLT  the  Mossoms  on  tlu-  vt-lvet  irreeii, 
And  waniini:  home  the  ladin  U'e, 
Yet  lahorini;  hnsily. 
The  while,  her  soft 
And  dclicale  liui^ers  [ihick'd  the  leaves  alot't. 


A  Summer  Scene.  227 

And  wliirl'd  them  round  and  round 
In  eddies  to  the  ground, 
T\^here  I,  an  humble  Pan,  with  many  a  wreath  was  crown'd! 

Presently  on  my  ear, 
Rang  full  and  deep. 

Joyous,  and  musical,  and  clear, 
A  sound,  which  made  my  father-heart  to  leap. 
And  sent  the  quick  blood  to  my  cheek  and  brow, 
Which  with  the  recollection  Avarm  e'en  now. 

It  ceased,  that  thrilling  tone  : 
And  Avith  it  passed  my  bright  but  dreamy  train 
Of  thought — and  I  was  but  a  man  again. 

Earthly,  and  weak,  and  lone. 
So  slight  a  touch  can  jar  the  spirit's  springs — 
And  e'en  a  word,  or  tone,  or  look,  clip  Fancy's  wings. 

Once  more — Once  more,  it  rang  upon  my  ear — 
But  blent  with  other  sounds,  as  clear 

And  musical  as  it : 
A  childish  jest — and  then  a  shout, 
From  one,  or  two,  or  three,  rang  out, 

Full,  free,  and  wild — 

And  then  a  fit 
Of  childish  laughter  rent  the  dewy  air ! 
And  now  my  eye  a  glimpse  caught  of  the  fair 


22-S  Miscdlnncom. 

And  lovely  onf,  :   It  was  my  own  dmr  cliild  ! 

Slu-  and  luT  little  l'ii(  iids,  lianl  at  tluir  play, 

Upon  the  grassy  slope,  that  softly  stretch'd  away. 

Atrain — ti^in — 
From  the  descending  plain, 
Up  rise  thosi'  gleeful  notes:   but  chief  that  voice 
Which  first  broke  on  my  car, 
And  made  my  heart  rejoice, 
Ascends,  full,  strong,  and  clear — 
Approacliing  nigli  and  nigher. 
As  the  strain  grows  high  and  higher; 
Then,  like  a  water-circle,  flowing 
Away  to  every  point,  and  growing 
Fainter,  antl  fainter,  till  the  hist  tones  die, 
Lost,  as  far-journeying  birds  fade  in  the  jmrple  sky. 

Bonnets  were  in  the  air. 
And  Ixmnet-rihbands  scattered  on  the  ground; 
Small  shoes  and  pantalettes  lay  thick  around. 
And  tiny  feet  were  bare: 
And  frocks  were  soilM,  ami  aprons  rent  ; 
But  still  they  kept  llu  ir  froiie-m«M)d, 
And  laugh'd  and  romp'd;  and  when  I  went 
-Viul  closer  bv  tlu-m  stood. 


A  Slimmer  Scene.  229 

How  hard  oach  little  elf  did  try 

To  win  the  most  of  ray  regard ; 
Now  gaziug  anxious  in  my  eye, 
And  striving  still  more  hard: 
The  spirit,  so  it  seem'd  to  me, 
The  same  in  the  great  world  we  see, 
Spurring  the  warrior  on  to  victory. 

And  urging  on  the  bard  : 
Each  had  success  as  much  at  heart. 
As  he  who  plays  in  war  or  politics  his  part. 

"My  child!— my  child!" 
She  comes  to  me : 
Her  cheeks  are  flush'd,  her  hair  is  wild, 
Her  pulse  is  bounding  free  : 
With  laugh  and  shout  she  comes — but  see ! 
Half  way  she  stops,  as  still  as  death  ; 
Her  look  is  sad — she  hardly  draws  a  breath. 
"My  child !  my  own  dear  child  ! 
Tell  me,  what  aileth  thee?" 
"  Father!  " — she  pointed  to  the  moon, 
On  the  horizon's  shatter'd  bound — 
'T  was  rising,  full  and  round. 
"Father!  I'm  coming  soon." 
Her  other  hand  now  pointed  to  the  West, 
Where  the  dim  sun  was  sinking  to  his  rest. 


230  MUcellaneom. 

"  Father!  are  tho?c  the  eyes  f>f  rind 
IjOokinfr  U]M»n  us  licrc?" 
Ilcr  knee  l«iit  slowly  to  the  dewy  sod — 
Ami  tlitn  came  tear  <»n  tear: 
A  gush  of  miugled  I'celiug — wouder,  and  joy,  aud  fear. 


, . ,  vi  "  \  ^•^  '  -.  r., .,. 


The  Mountain  Paths.  231 


^l\t  ^omxttiUi  Uatlis. 


Come  to  tlie  hills  with  me ! 
Come  tread  the  cool  and  flow'r-gem'd  paths,  that  wind 

'Neath  many  a  stately  tree — 

Trees  that  for  aye  have  lined 
The  airy  summits  of  our  Western  Land  : 
The  stars  are  fading,  and  the  air  is  bland. 

Come  to  the  hills  with  me! 
The  fresh-lipp'd  Morn  is  breathing  glorious  life  : 

Don  thy  calash,  and  flee 

The  city's  dust  and  strife ; 
Leave  thy  prunelle,  and  silken  hose, — and  take 
Cotton  and  calf-skin! — quick,  thy  toilet  make! 

Here — take  the  garden's  pride ! 
Thy  cheek,  like  it,  will  soon  be  rosy-fair. 

Now  for  the  green  hill  side, 

And  the  pure  upland  air ! 
Death  floats  in  every  breeze  that  fans  us  here — 
Oh,  for  the  cottage  of  the  mountaineer! 


Mi-'celJiDieous. 

S() — we  are  wimling  up; 
The  fiiir  stars  liavc  not  all  yet  left  the  sky: 

There — j)luck  tliat  huuey-eiii) ! 

Thy  slender  hand  will  vie 
"With  it  in  wliiteness ;  and — but  I  forget — 
Darl:  eyes  ciiiiiijare  not  with  the  violet: 

Still,  i)liick  it  ti.o;    I'll  call 
Thine  bright  as  any  star,  in  any  place. 

Nay — let  thy  bonmt  fall 

Back  from  thy  radiant  face! 
Ilt:irl's-ease,  anemone,  shrub,  rose-of-May  ; 
Wliitlu  r  tliiiK' eyes  now?   Ah  I    the  KiuL,' of  Day ! 

(iloriously  comes  he  there  I 
Morn  on  the  hills!     One  hour  of  lift-  like  this, 

Pays  for  whole  weeks  of  care; 

Earth  scarce  hath  greater  Miss: 
Yet  "angel  visits"  are  almost  its  many 
As  visits  to  the  hills — Thnj  turn  no  penny! 

What  lili'  is  iliis  I  tcel? 
A  new  sfnsiiti'>n  tiirills  through  every  vein: 

And  ghnving  fancies  steal 

Athwart  my  wondering  brain  : 
N'isioiis  of  lOld — hojH's  -aspiration. —  fears 
That  vanish  soon — briirht  dreams  of  connnir  vears! 


The  Mnmfain  PafU.  233 

'Ncatli  these  old  oaks  and  elms, 
The  spirit  hath  a  fullness  of  delight — • 

A  depth  of  joy,  that  whelms, 

Like  the  lone,  starry  night, 
Our  intellectual  being,  in  a  maze. 
Where  fancy,  pleas'd,  bewilder'd,  startled,  plays — 

Now  floundering  in  gloom. 
Now  reveling  in  glory,  as  a  ray 

The  darkness  doth  illume  : 

Then  bursts  the  perfect  day, 
And  the  clear'd  vision  wanders  wide  and  free 
Through  the  starr'd  realms  of  vast  Infinity. 

Morn  on  the  hill-tops !     Hark ! 
The  low  of  kine  swells  up  from  yon  green  vale. 

With  song  of  meadow-lark. 

And  merry  note  of  quail ; 
And  the  ' '  hip-halloo  ! "  of  the  wild  cow-boy. 
Comes,  soft  and  musical,  and  full  of  joy. 

The  breeze  is  rising  now  : 
The  purple  clouds  sail  gracefully  along ; 

The  spiral  saplings  bow, 

And  swell  the  choral  song ; 
And  from  each  tree-top,  by  the  free  wind  stirr'd, 
Floats  the  rich  matin  of  some  grateful  bird. 
20 


234 


Misrillm 


Man^-nian  alono !  of  all 
To  whom  thi.s  visilile  plory  liath  Ix^n  jrivon, 
Dccnu'th  the  privili'trt'  fniall 
Thus  to  coinmunc  with  Ilt-aven: 
There  is  no  hank  or  railroail  stock  on  liijzh — 
Stars  arc  uot  gold — i)cucc  r.iiu  nut  from  tlic  sky! 


r  -    rtmtsf 


Marvcd  Hymn.  235 


^  i^artjcst  Hjiiiim. 


Great  God! — our  heart-felt  thanks  to  Thee! 

We  feel  thy  presence  everywhere ; 
And  pray,  that  we  may  ever  be 

Thus  oltjects  of  thy  guardian  care. 

We  sow'd! — ^by  Thee  our  work  was  seen, 
And  bless'd ;  and  instantly  went  forth 

Thy  mandate  ;  and  in  living  green 

Soon  smiled  the  fair  and  fruitful  earth. 

AVe  toil'd  ! — and  Thou  didst  note  our  toil ; 

And  gav'st  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
Till  ripen'd  on  the  teeming  soil 

The  fragrant  grass,  and  golden  grain. 

And  now,  we  reap ! — and  oh,  our  God  ! 

From  this,  the  earth's  unbounded  floor. 
We  send  our  Song  of  Thanks  abroad, 

And  pray  Thee,  bless  our  hoarded  store ! 


2;]<)  Mi.^rillaiuou.'i. 


auflust. 


DrsT  r>n  thy  niaiiilcl  iliist, 
Briglit  summer,  on  tliy  liviiy  of  <riviii! 

A  taniisli,  as  of  nist, 

Dims  tliy  late-brilliaut  sliocn  : 
Ami  thy  youiiEr glories — leaf,  ami  lnnl,  and  llowcr- 
Clmngo  Cometh  over  them  with  evi-ry  hour. 

Thee  hath  the  August  sun 
LookM  on  witii  hot,  and  fierce,  ami  hrassy  face; 

And  still  and  lazily  run, 

Scarce  whispering  in  their  pace, 
The  half-dried  rivulets,  that  lately  sent 
A  shout  of  glttduojw  up,  as  on  they  weut. 

I'himr  like,  thr  long  midday. 
With  not  so  much  of  sweet  air  as  halli  >tirr'd 

The  down  u|Mtn  the  spray, 

Where  rests  the  panting  binl, 
T^ozing  awav  thf  hot  and  ttdiims  nix^n. 
With  litful  twitter.  >adlv  out  of  tune. 


Arignst.  237 

Seeds  iu  the  sultry  air, 
And  gossamer  web-work  on  tlie  sleeping  trees  ; 

E'en  the  tall  pines,  that  rear 

Their  plumes  to  catch  the  breeze, 
The  slightest  breeze  from  the  imfreshening  west, 
Partake  the  general  languor  and  deep  rest. 

Happy  as  man  may  be, 
Stretch'd  on  his  back,  in  homely  bean-vine  bower, 

While  the  voluptuous  bee 

Robs  each  surrounding  flower. 
And  .prattling  childhood  clambers  o'er  his  Ijrcast, 
The  husbandman  enjoys  his  noonday  rest. 

Against  the  hazy  sky. 
The  thin  and  fleecy  clouds  un moving  rest : 

Beneath  them  far,  yet  high 

In  the  dim,  distant  west. 
The  vulture,  scenting  thence  its  carrion-fare, 
Sails,  slowly  circling  in  the  sunny  air. 

Soberly,  iu  the  shade. 
Repose  the  patient  cow,  and  toil-worn  ox  ; 

Or  in  the  shoal  stream  wade, 

Shcltcr'd  by  juttiug  rocks ; 
The  fleecy  flock,  fly-scourged  and  restless,  rush 
Madly  from  fence  to  fence,  from  l)usli  to  bush. 


238  Mi.Mrll'DirnHH. 

T«-(lioiisly  pas.-*  tlie  lioiirs, 
And  vtixftation  wilts,  witli  l)li.<tiTM  nx)t — 
Ami  <lrtioi)  the  tliii>tin;^'  (l'»\vi.'rs, 
Wlurc  the  slant  sun-bcains  shoot ; 
lint  nf  caih  tall  uM  tree,  the  leiigtheiiin'r  lino, 
Sjow-cnepini;  eastwanl,  marks  the  (lav's  decline. 

Faster,  alonir  the  ]ilain, 
Moves  now  tlii'  shatU',  and  on  the  nuadnw's  ediro : 

The  kine  are  forth  a.^ain, 

Binls  flitter  in  the  hed^'e. 
Xow  in  the  molten  wi-st  sinks  the  hot  sun  : 
Wi'leome,  mild  eve  I — tlu-  sultry  day  is  done. 

rieasantly  eonust  thou, 
I)ew  of  the  eveninir,  to  the  crisp'd-up  irra«  ; 

Ami  thi'  eiiiTil  eorn-lihules  huw, 

As  the  liirlit  iireezes  pass, 
That  their  jiareh'd  lips  may  feel  thee,  and  expam 
Thou  sweet  n-viver  of  the  fevere<l  land. 

So,  to  th«'  thir>lini,'  soul, 
Cometh  the  dew  of  tin-  .Mmiirhly's  love; 

And  Iheseallu'd  luarl.  made  whole, 

I'm m  ill  in  joy  alM)Ve, 
To  where  ihe.-piril  IVeely  ma«le  expand. 
.\nd  rove,  untrammel'd.  in  tliai    •  l>.  lu  i  Imd.' 


Happiness — ^1  Picture,  239 


l^appfucss— ^  33Jcture. 


A  GREEN  vale,  and  au  humble  cot 

EmboAvered  in  vines  and  spreading  trees ; 
Before  the  door  a  verdant  plot, 

And  flowers  whose  perfume  loads  the  breeze 
Upon  the  grass,  those  flowers  among. 

Glad  as  the  winds  that  thither  stray, 
A  group  of  children,  fair  and  young, — ■ 

Their  cheeks  are  flush'd  with  play  ! 

Midway  the  two  small  rooms  between,        » 

(For  only  two  hath  cot  like  this,) 
Spectator  of  the  joyous  scene, 

And  sharer  of  the  heart-felt  bliss, 
A  Avhite-haired  grandam  ; — on  her  kuee 

Her  knitting  lies  neglected  now ; 
She  fairly  strains  her  eyes  to  see, — 

Her  specs  pushed  to  her  brow ! 

A  smile  upon  her  withered  cheeks, — 
On  each  a  glistening  tear-drop  lies ; 

Her  lips  apart — she  thoughtless  speaks, 
And  harder  strains  her  filmv  eves. 


240 


Mi-V'fUnTifnii.9. 


An  anguisliM  cry  I — she  quickly  sprunfr. 
The  suflorcr's  hv.ul  was  on  her  l)r(  a>t ; 

A  Ix-e  its  tiuy  foot  had  stung, 
On  clover-blossom  prest. 


xT: 


?^--s^. 


Autumn  Afternoon.  241 


itutumn  ^UentooH. 


21 


In  the  clouds  my  eye  makes  pictures, 
And  paints  tliem  on  the  sky, 

And  I  photograph  them  on  my  mind 
As  they  go  drifting  by. 

In  the  air  my  ear  finds  music, 

And  tracks  it  to  the  trees, 
And  I  score  it  on  my  heart  before 

It  leaves  me  with  the  breeze. 

On  the  earth  my  heart  hears  voices 
From  the  buried  whom  I  love, 

And  I  lean  to  listen ,  but  I  find 
Them  echoes  from  Above. 

On  the  seas  my  spirit  treml)les 
At  the  wierd,  wild  tones  it  hears. 

But  it's  only  Avaves,  I  know,  that  sing 
The  Anthem  of  the  Years. 

From  deep  valleys,  looking  upward, 
All  is  calm  that  I  descry, 


242  MiiceUaneou.*. 

But  I  know  the  earth  is  fiHM  witli  strife 
Bc'iuath  that  quiet  sky. 

On  tlic  mountains,  gazing  downwanl, 
Of  my  hcav'uwanl  height  I'm  vain. 

Yet  I  know  the  cartli,  seen  from  alwve, 
Is  all  one  level  plain. 

And  it's  always  thus  : — wherever 

I  go,  wliatever  do, 
Still  the  False  is  sure  to  come  with  strength, 

But  stronger  comes  the  True. 

And  the  False  cnnics  lirst  in  order. 
Its  face  all  wrcatli'd  with  smiles. 

And  thus  tempts  me  with  its  hoUowness, 
And  woos  me  witli  its  wiles. 

IJiit  I  think  nie  of  th<'  temple, 

And  the  pinnacle  of  old — 
Of  tlie  False  that  shrank  with  tcrmr  there. 

And  tin-  True  that   there  Wile  hold. 

.\iid  I  think  of  the  hiudi  nionntain, 
An<l  tlie  wcaltli  that  lay  in  view     - 

And  llic  hevil  there  that.«till  was  fal>e. 
And  tlic  ("iiri>t  that  still  wa.**  True. 


Aiihimn  Afternoon.  243 

And  I  thiuk  me  of  the  Angels 

In  the  paths  of  Space  that  trod, 
And  there  minister'd,  in  light  and  love, 

To  Him,  the  Son  of  God. 

And  I  think  of  all  the  Shadows 

That,  like  night,  make  dim  my  way. 

But  pass  off,  or  soon  or  late,  and  leave 
The  certain  light  of  day ; 

And  of  all  the  blessed  angels 

That  these  shades  have  broken  through. 
With  their  constant  warnings  of  the  False, 

And  their  whispers  of  the  True. 

Then  I  send  a  voice  to  Heaven, 

With  ray  thanks  for  every  boon  ; 
And  I  worry  not — but  still  enjoy 

My  Autumn  Afternoon. 


244  Mi<cdlaneoiu. 


To  n  ante  iFnll  jFlolucr. 


Rich,  gnldon-hucd,  and  fair! 
Jjcautiful  gi'in  'iiiiil  the  j^urroundiiig  Might ! 

Cheerfully  wav'st  tliou  there, 

A  blessing  to  the  sight : 
And  lavishly  dost  thou  thy  sweets  dis|K'nsc — 
A  balmy  pleasure  to  the  lunging  sense. 

When  the  fair  buds  of  sjiring 
Have  bur.->t,  and  bluoniM,  and  fatle<l  from  the  eye, 

And  the  ricli  blossoming 

Of  sumnicr  hath  pa^-M  by, 
Thoucom'sl,  'mid  chilling  sK-rt,  and  winds  that  blight, 
<  Iladdiiiing  the  gloum—  a  star  in  Sorrow's  niglit. 

'I'hii-.  when  youth's  MMOolh,  mid  liitr. 
And  ri>-( -Itnf  lililid  tin*  k  hath  |>:i— 'd  :i\\;i\  ; 

And  tlu-  rich.  glo><y  li;iir. 

Is  dim,  anil  thin,  and  grey  ; 
And   Time's  fierce  stornv-,  and  Age's  wintrv  wind. 
Have  >c!ilhed  tlie  ImmIv,  iind  just  spared  the  mind; 


To  a  Late  Fall   Flower. 


245 


Then,  'mid  tlui  general  gloom, 
Bursts  forth  a  light  to  guide  the  weary  on. 
Joyfully,  to  the  tomb, 
Where  life's  long  march  is  done : 
Light  of  the  soul!   that  from  its  heavenly  height 
Dispels  the  darkness  of  the  gathering  night. 


^^Jy^'^^Sk^' 


^o'o'V' 


246  Mi.<rintinrous 


JThf  CJL'rrcU  nt  Sra. 


Tire  sun  was  low — a  flood  of  light 
Slept  on  the  glittering  ocean — 

And  Xight'.s  dark  rolies  were  journeying  up, 
AVith  slow  and  solemn  motion: 

And  ever-and-anon  was  hoard 

The  sea-mew'-!  slirick — ill-<>n»ened  binll 

Down  sunk  the  sun — the  gathering  mist 

Rose  proudly  up  before  it, 
And  streamed  upon  the  lurid  air, 

A  blood-red  banner  o'er  it : 
Frowning,  and  piled  u|)  lu':i[)  on  litnp, 
Dense  clouds  o'erspnad  the  mighty  Deep; 
Darker,  and  pitciiy  black  they  givw — 
An<l  rolled,  and  wheeled,  ami  onward  flew. 

Like  nmrshaling  of  men. 
Then  trembled  timid  souls  with  fear — 
(Jlistened  in  In-auty'seye  the  tear — 
And  "fatherland"  was  doubly  «lear — 

Hut  bravi'  luarts  (juailed  not  Oun. 


The   ^Yrcch  at  Sea.  2t7 

Soon  the  rough  tar's  prophetic  eye 
Saw  many  a  floating  shroud  on  high, 
And  many  a  coffiu  drifting  by — 

And  on  the  driving  gale 
Beheld  the  spirits  of  the  Deep, 
Above — around — in  fury  sweep — • 

Then  he  heard  a  low,  sad  wail. 

And  at  times  a  muttered  curse, 
As  on  the  fierce  and  troubled  wind. 
Rode  Death — and,  following  close  behind, 

A  dark  and  sombre  hearse. 
And  soon  the  barque  a  Avreck  was  driven, 
Before  the  free,  wild  winds  of  heaven  ! 
Now  shrank  with  fear  each  gallant  heart — 

Bended  was  many  a  knee — 
And  the  last  prayer  was  offered  up 

God  of  the  Deep,  to  Thee ! 
Muttered  the  angry  heavens  still. 

And  murmured  still  the  sea— 
And  old  and  sterner  hearts  bowed  down, 

God  of  the  Deep,  to  Thee ! 
And  still  the  wreck  was  onward  driven, 

Upon  the  wide,  wild  sea — 
And  Man's  proud  soul  to  Fate  was  given. 

Woman's,  oh  God,  to  Thee! 


■JiS 


3Iii<ceU(tnr(jm. 


Gajjcd  wide  tlic  Deep — down  plunged  the  wreck- 
Up  rose  a  fearful  yell — 

Death's  wings  flapjM'd  oVr  that  sinking  deck  — 
A  shudder  I —  all  was  still. 


To  il/y  Mother.  249 


5ro  Jlti)  pother. 


Thy  cheek — it  is  pale  my  mother, 

Aud  the  light  of  thiue  eye  is  dim — 
And  the  gushiugs  of  gladness,  that  used  to  fill 

Thy  cup  of  joy  to  its  brim, 
Come  like  the  visits  of  angels, 

So  "few  and  far  between," 
That  I  feel  the  reed  is  a  feeble  one 

On  which  thou  hence  must  lean. 

'Tis  a  bitter  thing,  my  mother, 

To  look  on  a  parent's  decay — 
To  behold  the  Spoiler's  ravages, 

As  he  tears  life's  bloom  away : 
'Tis  bitter  to  look  on  the  furrows 

He  ploughs  in  the  thoughtful  brow — 
To  weep  o'er  the  gems  of  intellect 

That  are  rayless,  and  sheeuless  now. 

But  there  is  a  thouglit,  my  mother. 
That  is  balm  to  the  stricken  heart : 


2-)0  MiifCcllanroKS. 

— Thoujrh  the  gift  of  life  is  :i  frail  om\ 
Anil  from  it  we  soou  must  part, 

There  is  :i  haven  of  gladness, 
For  the  weary  heart  a  home. 

Where  the  light  of  joy  is  never  <lim, 
And  sorrows  never  eome. 

On  tliat  lilis>fiil  hnmc,  my  muther, 

Thine  eye  is  often  l»'nt, 
Like  a  tiny  child's  on  a  wished-for-thiug- 

So  longing — so  intent. 
Oh,  how  i)ure  in  the  eye  of  Heaven 

Must  the  heart  of  the  Christian  1k> — 
So  entirely  fixed  on  that  honu-  alM)ve, 

From  earthliness  so  free  I 


The  Bridal.  251 


Wlu  ajrftral. 


He  stood  before  the  altar ;  and  a  shade 
Of  darkness  for  a  moment  crossed  his  brow. 
And  melted  into  beauty  on  his  lip ; 
And  a  slight  tremor  thrilled  him,  as  the  blood 
Came  boiling  to  his  forehead — and  sunk  l)ack, 
And  rushed  tumultuous  to  his  burning  cheek. 
But  this  was  over — and  the  confidence 
Of  manhood  Avas  upon  him  ;  and  he  stood 
Erect,  in  pride  and  no])lcness,  before 
The  minister  of  the  High  God — a  man 
Hoary  and  tremulous,  and  bowed  Avith  years. 
And  she,  the  loved,  the  beautiful,  stood  np 
Beside  the  chosen  one ;  and  meekly  bent 
Her  half-closed  eyes  upon  her  swelling  breast : 
And  on  her  temples  slej^t  a  raven  tress, 
Shading  her  beautiful  veins,  that  melted  through, 
Like  amethyst  half-hidden  in  the  snow. 
And  loveliness  hung  round  her,  like  a  soft 
And  silvery  drapery.     And  j^ain,  and  sin. 
And  sorrow's  discipline,  on  her  fair  l)row 
Had  no  abiding  place.     The  various  shades 


252  MlyccUanenug. 

Of  sorniw  ami  of  ^'ladno.^s,  ranio  ami  wont 
Witii  almost  every  pulse,  like  the  uneertain 
Ami  silent  memory  of  forjrottcn  dreams. 
.  They  stood  tot:ether — and  their  hearts  were  protn 
His  of  its  nobleness,  aud  hers  of  him! 
The  holy  father  offend  ii|>  a  praver, 
That  happiness  in  after  time  mi<.'ht  Ix" 
The  fruerdon  of  their  love — and  that  the  star 
Whieh  rose  so  beautiful  and  cloudless  m.w, 
Mij;ht  lijrht  tiieir  years  of  trial,  and  ;;o  down 
Calmly,  as  it  amse — and  they  were  onk. 

Here  cndeth  this  lair  jiicture.     Time  wnre  on. 
Ami  they  commiiiLdt  il  v.  itii  the  ealloiis  world. 
And  had  their  day  of  glory  and  of  ghxHu, 
And  sl('i)t  ami  were  forgotten.     Others  came, 
And  filled  their  places  at  the  social  hearth: 
They  too  have  pa-ssed  away.     Aud  ever  thus 
Time  silently  goes  on  his  ceju'oles.s  round. 
Unnoticed  aud  unknown  ;  and  huniau  kind 
.\n'  but  the  pupj>cts,  moved  alH>ut  at  will, 
And  lain  within  the  drcandcss  st>puleher, 
To  wait  the  coming  of  that  far-iiJfday, 
When  the  enfraiu-hiscd  spirit  shall  awake, 
.\iid  burst  tlu'  cerements  of  the  liuniid  '/rnvi-, 
And  live,  and  be  immortal  I 


Barley  Brce.  25.') 


2lc-irlfi)  Urec. 


In  Auld  Scotia  was  thy  home, 
Barley  Bree  !  Barley  Bree ! 
But  thou  sawest  fit  to  roam 

O'er  the  sea  : — 
And  thy  roving  feet  have  trod 
Wheresoe'er  the  smile  of  God 
Hath  lent  greenness  to  the  sod 
Barley  Bree. 

Thou  hast  been  a  jovial  wight, 
Barley  Bree !  Barley  Bree ! 

Ever  ready,  day  or  night. 
With  thy  glee  ; 

And  as  time  has  sped  along, 

'Midst  thy  laugh,  and  joke,  and  song, 

Thou  hast  never  dream'd  of  wrong. 
Barley  Bree. 

Thy  heart  was  ever  warm. 
Barley  Bree !  Barley  Bree  ! 

If  sunshine  or  if  storm 
Came  to  thee, 


2')i  MUcellaneoiu. 


Ami  the  poor  who  sought  thy  door, 
Tliou^'h  oft  helped  hv  thee  Ix'fore, 
Ever  freely  sIku-imI  thy  store, 
Barley  Brec! 

Thou  didst  alway  love  thy  drop, 

J^arh  y  Bree  !   Barley  Bret- ! 
But  tiie  j»int  at  wliirh  tt)  stop, 

Thou  did'.st  see. 
Yet  the  hahit  irrew  too  stmng, 
And  thou  liujreredst  t<M)  long 
O'er  the  draught  and  o'er  the  song, 
BaiKy  Bree ! 

And  as  time  tUw  nnuid  alvuit. 
Barley  Bree!   Barley  Bree! 

Thine  own  elhow  soon  i)eeiKMl  out, 
And  thy  knee  ; 

An<l  thy  faei-  grew  round  and  red. 

And  thy  jollity  all  fled. 

And  the  street  was  oft  tliy  U'd, 
P.arhy  Bnv  ! 

But  an  angel  help'd  thee  up, 
Barl.y  Bnc  I   liarhy  Bnr  ! 

And  f'>r  aye  the  jxtisouHaip 
Thou  ilid'st  llec ; 


Barley  Bree. 


255 


Aud  again  thou  art  erect, 
Aud  with  mirth  thy  brow  is  deck'd, 
And  thou  hast  the  world's  respect, 
Barley  Bree. 


250  Mii}€cUaitcous. 


riir  Hf\)rlcrs. 


TiiKRE  were  sounds  of  mirth  ami  revelry, 

III  an  old  aiu'CJ^tral  hall, 

And  many  a  merry  laugh  raiiL'  out. 

And  many  a  merry  call; 

And  the  tdass  was  freely  pas.«'d  anmiid. 

Am!  the  red  wine  ftvily  ijuaird  ; 

And  many  a  heart  l)eat  high  with  glee, 

And  the  joy  of  the  thrilling  draught — 
In  tliat  liroad  and  luige  ancestral  hall. 
Of  tlu-  times  that  wc-re.  of  old. 

A  viiici-  arosi',  as  the  light.'*  grew  dim, 

.\nd  a  glass  was  lltiuri.-hid  high  : 

"  I  drink  tt»  Life!"  said  a  KrviUr  Imld, 

"And  I  do  not  fear  to  die. 

I  have  no  fear— I  have  no  fear — 

Talk  not  of  the  vagrant.  Ptalh  ; 

l-'or  he's  hut  a  grim  olil  genthnian. 

And  wai-s  hut  with  his  hrenth." 

A  hoast  wi'U  Worthy  a  revrl-rout 
( )f  tlic  tinifs  that  wen',  of  old. 


TJie  Revelers.  257 

"We  driuk,"  said  all,  "  We  drink  to  Life 

And  we  do  not  fear  to  die  ! " 

Just  then  a  rushing  sound  was  heard, 

As  of  quick  wings  sweeping  by  ; 

And  soon  the  old  latch  was  lifted  up, 

And  the  door  flew  oj^en  wide, 

And  a  stranger  strode  within  the  hall. 

With  an  air  of  martial  pride : 

In  visor  and  cloak,  like  a  secret  knight 

Of  the  times  that  were,  of  old. 

He  spoke :   "I  join  in  your  revelry, 

Bold  sons  of  the  Bacchan  rite, 

And  I  drink  the  toast  ye  have  filled  to  drink, 

The  pledge  of  yon  dauntless  knight : 

Fill  high — fill  higher — we  drink  to  Life, 

And  we  scorn  the  vagrant.  Death, 

For  he's  but  a  grim  old  gentleman, 

And  wars  but  with  his  breath." 

A  pledge  well  worthy  a  revel-rout 

Of  the  times  that  were,  of  old. 

"He's  a  noble  soul,  that  champion  knight. 
And  he  wears  a  martial  l)row : 
Oh,  he'll  pass  the  gates  of  Paradise, 
To  the  regions  of  bliss  below ! " 
17 


25<S  Mi-rrlht  n  roilS. 

The  Reveler  stood  in  deep  amaze — 
Now  flashed  his  fiery  eye; 
lie  muttered  a  eurse — then  shduted  Imid, 
"  Intruder,  thou  shalt  die!" 

And  his  sword  ]t':i]rd  nut,  like  a  luinm's  Itrave, 

Of  the  times  that  were,  of  old. 

lie  struck — and  the  stranger's  truise  fell  off, 

When  a  j)hantom  before  him  stood, 

A  prinning,  and  ghastly,  and  horrible  thing, 

That  curdled  his  boiling  blood. 

lie  stirred  not  again,  till  the  stranger  blew 

A  blast  of  his  withering  bnatli  ; 

Then  the  Reveler  fell  at  the  Phantom's  feet, 

And  his  conqueror  was — Death! 

In  that  broad  and  high  ancestral  hall. 
Of  the  liints  that  were,  of  old. 


The  Invalid.        \  259 


She  came  iu  Spring,  wlieu  leaves  were  green, 

And  birds  sang  blithe  in  bower  and  tree, 
A  stranger,  but  lier  gentle  mien 

It  was  a  calm  delight  to  see. 
In  every  motion,  grace  was  hers ; 

On  every  feature,  sweetness  dwelt ; 
Thoughts  soon  became  her  worshipers — 

Affections  soon  before  her  knelt. 

She  bloom'd  through,  all  the  summer  days 

As  sweetly  as  the  fairest  flowers, 
And  till  October's  softening  haze 

Came  with  its  still  and  dreamy  hours. 
So  calm  the  current  of  her  life. 

So  lovely  and  serene  its  flow, 
We  hardly  mark'd  the  deadly  strife 

Disease  forever  kept  below. 

But  Autumn  Avinds  grew  wild  and  chill, 
And  pierced  her  Avith  their  icy  l)rcath ; 

And  when  the'^snow  on  plain  and  hill  • 
Lay  white,  she  passed,  and  slept  in  death. 


i''''^  Mi<CiUii)irn}i.<, 

Tones  (tnly  of  iiiiiiinit;il  liiiih 

Our  iiu'inory  of  her  voice  can  f^tir; 

AVitli  (liin<,'s  too  hcautifnl  for  earth 
Alone  do  we  ren>ernl>cr  lur. 

She  came  in  Sprin;:,  when  leaves  were  green, 

Anil  ])ir(ls  san;;  hlithe  in  hower  and  tree, 
And  flowers  sprani;  np  an<l  hlooined  between 

Low  hranches  and  the  (piickcning  lea. 
The  greenness  of  the  leaf  is  gone, 

The  beauty  of  the  flower  is  riven, 
The  birds  to  other  climes  have  flown. 

And  there's  an  an<relniore  in  Heaven. 


/ 


A  ll'onderful  Story.  261 


I. 

Last  night,  iu  tlie  dee]}  mid  watches, 

As  I  sat  aloue  in  my  room, 
A  Form  stood  suddenly  by  me, 

That  at  first  seem'd  jiart  of  the  gloom, — 
But  anon,  by   the  few,  fiiiut  embers. 

Distinct  all  its  outlines  grew. 
And  I  saw  that  the  gloom  of  my  chamber, 

And  the  gloom  of  the  Form,  were  two. 

II. 

Ere  long  the  defined  proportions 

Of  a  gray  old  man  stood  there, 
Looking  out  from  his  beard  of  silver. 

And  his  thin,  white,  flowing  hair.  ■* 
His  face,  in  its  whole  expression, 

AVas  beautiful  and  benign. 
As  he  leant  his  staff  in  the  corner. 

And  took  a  seat  by  mine. 

III. 

Then  the  gloom  in  my  chamber  vanish'd ; 
And  the  light, — it  so  did  seem, — 


2G2  Jlincellancow. 

Came  out  from  hi?  shadnwy  vestments. 
In  many  a  fla.-li  ami  stream. 

And  soon,  throuj:li  tlie  thin,  i)ale  ashes, 
Appear'*!  a  tortuous  flame ; 

And  the  cliaracters  which  it  pictured, 
"Were  the  letters  of  a  name. 

TV. 
And  that  name  wa.s  simply — Wisdom  : 

But  why  or  whence  it  came, 
I  learnt  not  from  the  ashes — 

I  learnt  not  from  the  flame. 
But  tlie  old  man  entertain'd  me 

"With  a  story  that  was  new  ; 
And  in  its  clear  unwindings 

rtrliaps  may  Tu'  the  dew:  — 


V. 


A   Wonderful  Story. 


263 


VI. 

I  know  no  more  about  it, 

Thau  Avhat  I  hear  unfold  : 
Thus  the  Greybeard  sought  my  chamber- 

This  the  story  that  he  told ; 
But  I've  often  thought,  Isola  , 

If  the  tales  told  you  and  me 
Were  more  of  them  like  this  one, 

How  much  better  it  would  be. 


204  Miscf'llitiuous. 


The  keystone  of  the  arch  of  JAfc,  is  now 

Beneath  me.     Thoughtfully  I  hence  survey 
"NVliat  is  to  l)e,  niul  what  lias  In^en,  ami  buw 

My  head  in  deej)  luunility,  ami  lay 
My  |iiiilo  in  dust,  that  with  my  williuf,'  mind, 

And  with  my  vi<^orous  arm,  and  with  my  heart 
As  stronir,  I've  done  so  little  for  my  kind, 

And  less  for  Gixl  .  .  .  Here  Life's  two  eras  part: 
The  past,  my  past,  I  eount  hut  little  worth : 
I've  fcll'd  the  forest,  broken  up  the  earth, 
And  jrathered  here  a  seed,  and  there  a  root, 
Of  (lower,  and  grain,  and  iK-rry-lx^aring  shoot  ; 
lint  all  was  jiuriKjse — preparation — plan — 
The  small  beginnings  of  Life's  little  sjmu. 
The  FrTiui:  of  my  K'ing  is  for  toil : — 
Ti»  plant  the  gathered  germs,  and  till  the  soil. 
And,  without  indolenee  or  weak  surcease, 
Watch  the  (juick  growth,  and  Ik  Ip  the  large  increase; 
Then,  as  Life's  ein-ling  seasons  onward  move. 

To  hcjip  the  hounteoUH  summer's  golden  grain, 
;\nd  autumn's  fruitage,  on  the  lumln'ring  wain. 
(Iniiif  me.  Thou  ^^ighty  One  who  sitt'st  above, 
To  .sow  the  .seeds  of  Truth,  and  reap  the  fruits  of  Ix)ve. 

riMs. 


JULY,  1881. 

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WKiin(F.)ftnd  Joiikstox  (M.  C.)  An  Improved  Tally-Book,  for 
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